The Warp 5 Chronicles
by V'Kotik
Summary: After six years of fanfiction writing it is time to get started on my Magnum Opus. An old former Starfleet Officer and his wife write down the story of his life to preserve the knowledge of humanities first steps into deep space for future generations. With special thanks to my beta reader LoyaulteMeLie.
1. The Message

The soft swish of the sliding door as it was pushed aside with gentle grace woke me from my dozing.

The need to cat-nap was one of the things that had come with age. I could no longer make it through the day without nodding off a few times. It wouldn't last for longer than twenty minutes, but I needed those little naps every few hours. Who'd have thought that I'd live to a biblical one hundred and thirty and still be able to move on my own? Even though the word 'barely' did need to be mentioned in the same sentence.

My dear wife shuffled in, her gait no longer as graceful and steady as it had once been, but even though the time had left its unmistakable traces in her face and body, for me she was the same beautiful and enigmatic woman she'd always been. No wrinkle on her features would ever change that. The body had aged, but her mind and soul were still the marvelous gems that I'd had the privilege of enjoying all those years.

Every bone in my body seemed to creak as I struggled out of my chair and waddled off to meet her. It was ridiculous, considering that she was in much better health than me, but old habits die hard and I took the stack of paper from her. She didn't offer any protest. After decades of marriage she knew when to let me do as I liked and when to put her foot down.

"I still do not understand the logic in writing your memoirs, let alone using such an archaic method," she said softly as she sat down across from me. Her hazel-colored eyes had lost nothing of their exotic sparkle and even almost a century after first meeting her, I could still forget everything around me and get lost in the fascination of just looking into those dark orbs that let me look into her beautiful soul.

"There's only three of us left, darlin', and after the fire at Memory Alpha, there's nothing left to tell the tale of humanity's first deep space mission. God knows how many years I've got left, but even when I'm long gone I don't want that one day someone cooks up a tall tale using that new-fangled holo-suit stuff without any proper data to go by. With as little as is left of our logs they could just as well think I'd killed myself senselessly."

I was waiting for her long-suffering eyebrow to creep up (after all, I'd played a major role in developing the holo technology to begin with), but instead I saw her face fall ever so slightly. The glint disappeared from her eyes and was replaced by abject sadness. My eyes filled up with tears instantly.

"Hoshi didn't make it, did she?" I asked, and my own voice sounded alien to me at that point. We'd both known that it was only a matter of time, after all Hoshi was only eight years younger than me, but realizing the time had come hurt so badly, I could barely breathe. My wife just nodded.

"Can you make arrangements for us to attend the funeral?"

She nodded again and stood to leave. I didn't need to tell her that I wanted to be alone to bury myself in my writing. When she left she was a little more bowed by age and sadness than when she'd come in.

I sorted through the already finished pages until I found the cover page. As a tear dropped down on the white paper I grabbed my stylograph and wrote with a shaky hand:

_I dedicate this story of my life to my dear sister and best friend Hoshi Sato, who has been with us for so many years and has made countless days of my life bright ones. _


	2. The Woman From Tallahassee

I felt a long-forgotten boyish glee when the old childhood trick worked as if I had been practicing it every day. As I approached Harrison's creek I hopped off my bike, dissipated the energy with a few quick steps and put it against a tree – all in one swift motion without it falling over or overshooting the target.

Once I'd convinced myself that I was basically still the silly kid from years gone by, I inhaled the scent of the pine trees around me as I stripped off my clothes. It was the last day of August and the summer of forty-one had been a hot one, so even at three in the morning I wasn't wearing much to begin with. It felt strange having the cool breeze wash over my naked frame, but that was mainly because I hadn't been here since last summer.

I spread out the blanket and lay down on it, just enjoying the reflections the full moon's pale light painted on the water where Harrison's creek spilled into the lake. The serenity of the place was heaven on Earth, and I rued the fact that I'd let my own ambition bully me into abandoning the place all summer. I closed my eyes, soaking up the near perfect atmosphere. An owl was crying out somewhere in the distance and I could hear the soft gurgling as the little creek's water rushed past.

The tranquility around the place would probably have been enough to sedate a Vulcan, but then, I thought, they'd probably have a bit of a problem with the being naked malarkey. All of Bay County knew that the little lake at Harrison's creek was the turf of the local nude bathers' community, giving us a place to drop the frock without getting busted for indecent exposure.

One would have thought that in the year 2141 people would be enlightened enough to realize that people swimming and sunbathing in the nude was not going to hurt anyone, but Florida was so stuck-up, we had to retreat to a place well hidden within a forest for the prudish folk to accept the status quo.

After lying for a while soaking up the atmosphere, I decided to go skinny-dipping. The full moon's perfect, brilliant image reflected in the water as I shivered slightly in the shallows and the cold crept up through my feet. After such a long summer the water would have been quite warm if it wasn't for the fact that the little creek constantly fed ice-cold water into it. Drawing a deep breath, I let myself fall forwards into the water.

-=/\=-

I woke up to the sounds of early birds and someone's footsteps on the gravel path. It was unusual to encounter someone else around here this early in the morning. However, I merely opened my eyes a bit to see that it was still early dawn. The pale reflection of the moon on the water's surface had been joined by bronze colored glints as the rising sun sent a first few rays of light through the trees.

It was an unspoken rule around here that one didn't go about eying up new arrivals, as it could well be someone coming here for the first time, and nervous about it. Closing my eyes again, I continued enjoying the scents and sounds of nature as the local wildlife started their day. That pleasure was short lived however, when the rustling sounds of whoever had arrived got a little too close for comfort. Unless the place was packed, which was rare enough, nobody would stake his claim right next to someone else.

My eyes snapped open and I jumped a bit when my gaze was met by a young girl's firm rear-end and it took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a meddlesome stranger, but my younger sister Lizzie, undressing at the foot end of my blanket. As she pushed down her pants she smiled at me, looking upside-down through her legs, completely oblivious to the fact that she didn't present a particularly modest image.

A waft of her favorite lavender shampoo hit my nose when she sat down next to me with that typical smile of hers. Her blue eyes were sparkling with mirth and happiness. I had asked her several times not to do that, but like always she ignored my request and placed a gentle kiss on my lips.

"Morning sleepyhead," she said, her eyes dancing with glee. "I thought I'd miss out on doing the tucker bomb completely this summer."

"How'd you know I was out here?"

She looked at me with a lopsided grin and I realized it had been a stupid question. Where else would I go by bike in the middle of the night? As we were still chuckling about my 'here's your sign' moment, the amusement was interrupted by a growl and it came right from my stomach.

"Knew it. I've brought something to eat," she admonished me softly and poked my belly button with her finger. "I bet you haven't eaten since dinner."

There was no point in arguing, considering my stomach had just done a pretty convincing sound-imitation of a rock fall.

Setting down the picnic basket she'd brought Lizzie sat down across from me and handed me a napkin then put another one in her lap. Covering my own lap I tried not to sigh too loudly in relief. That lotus seating position would have been a truly nasty image. I'd never had a problem with my sister's knack for nakedness, after all this was our favorite place, but looking at my sixteen year old sibling's privates was just a bit too far past by creepiness threshold, especially when eating. Lizzie was of course completely oblivious to such details.

I smiled blissfully when she handed me a paper plate with a slice of pecan pie. Since it was made with brown sugar she'd made it. Mom used the white variety.

"I knew it was a good idea to have you live at my place instead of the dorm," I teased her.

I wasn't a shabby cook, but having my favorite sibling around would mean I'd be in for some great home-made food. Mind you, cooking was not what she was coming to Fog City with me for. That gorgeous sister of mine had been granted an artistic scholarship at the Hundertwasser high school for the exceptionally gifted.

"Mom will make a scene though," she replied and ignored my quip. "I've been her last chick to cluck over."

Her knowing half-smile was answered by my nod. "But once we've survived that you'll enjoy the first days without the mother-copter circling overhead. Then you'll start to miss her."

We both chuckled and talked about several things while eating, but in truth I was way too busy enjoying my pecan pie. Frankly there wasn't much motivation to listen anyway as Lizzie was harping on at mom's favorite topic – my girlfriend or boyfriend, or more specifically the utter lack of either.

My complete inactivity in the romance department had been so thorough that my family didn't even know if I was straight or gay like my older brother David. Of course they didn't know _why_ I'd been living like a monk for the past three years, but it had helped save some female hearts being broken (assuming anyone was interested in me to start with). I had barely finished that thought when my dear sister dropped an almighty bomb at me.

"You need to get laid, brother of mine," she concluded her unheard-by-me monologue dryly.

It literally took my breath away. I started to cough when the latest bite of pecan pie inadvertently went down the wrong pipe. My torso was rocked by Lizzie's fist thumping against my back while I wheezed and hacked helplessly.

Once I had regained my ability to breathe I looked at her in a mixture of bewilderment and reproach for having shocked the daylights out of me.

"How do you know how often or not I get laid?" I challenged her – and immediately realization dawned that I'd asked the wrong question. That look on her face was all too familiar. She had the dirt on me and I was in for a few hard truths. A silent groan escaped my throat when she stuck the proverbial knife in at the exact point where the mess had started.

"Remember the '38 Regionals in Tallahassee? You'd won without a single defeat and most of your fights by knockout. Normally anyone who's this good would at least be drafted into the national amateur team. Yet you hung up the boxing gloves a mere week later. On top of that you were so scatterbrained you left your urologist's appointment lying around openly."

I just looked at her, slack-jawed and was probably blushing a nice shade of crimson as well.

"Back then I was just thirteen and didn't know what to make of it, but later I could. You might have brought the trophy back, but I bet you left your virginity in Tallahassee."

At that point I was wondering at which temperature human skin would spontaneously combust. Whatever it was, my cheeks felt as though they were approaching that very temperature.

"And why would a guy go to the urologists after losing his virginity?" she continued remorselessly. "You were afraid you'd brought back a little souvenir, meaning you didn't know him or her and you'd forgotten to use the condom each of us got from dad when we turned fourteen."

I was flattened, utterly unable to speak. My face was burning up and I jerked back when she touched my cheek. It felt like someone stuck a hot needle in it.

Her look was sad. She was probably feeling bad about having cornered me so brutally.

As I shook my head to rattle some sense back into it, the decision was made. Heck, I've always been able to talk with her about everything, and now that she was sixteen there was no need any more to pretend she wouldn't know about the 'birds and the bees'. Truth be told, somehow I'd always wanted it off my chest, and now as was good a time as any.

"I don't even know more than her first name, to this very day," I admitted, feeling ashamed. "She'd been sitting in the first row all through the tournament practically drooling at me even though she was a good deal older than me. Hell, I don't know, she was probably something like twenty-five, thirty? Long dark hair, unbelievably beautiful brown eyes, bit of a Latina touch about her, incredibly beautiful woman, and godammit, that smile..."

"You're gushing, Trip," Lizzie interrupted me softly. "If the two of you ended up in bed, why did you do the u-turn afterwards? Sounds to me like you're still smitten with her, head over heels."

I hung my head in shame. Lizzie was about to see the coward side of her brother.

"Back home, I realized what I'd done. For weeks I was freakin' out every morning, scared that a letter would come telling me that mom would be a grandma in nine months' time. Two or three anonymous messages came in. They were from her, but I ignored them. I was so friggin' messed up. When I finally answered one of them, months later, she didn't react anymore."

"And that's when you became an indoor kid, burying your nose in engineering books ever since," Lizzie finished the story for me. I saw a glint of compassion in her eyes, but also a look of disappointment. I had wronged a woman and she wasn't best pleased about it. But instead of berating me for my cowardice, she gave me a gentle half-smile.

A nod was the answer to her theory. "I stopped lookin' for a girlfriend, let alone someone to hop in the sack with. I broke the heart of a very special lady and I didn't want to do that to other girls too."

"At least you've learned your lesson, bro. Not all is lost. But you're twenty now. Don't you think you've served your self-imposed sentence?"

I looked back at her blankly. I had prepared to be chewed out. "You're not mad at me?"

"Trip, you were _seventeen_," she said. "And even though you made a right mess of it, whoever that woman was, she's got to take some of the blame as well. She must have known how easy it is to seduce a clueless teenager, and that he's not gonna react in a mature way if something goes wrong. She could have taken some responsibility as well, y'know, even if it was just telling you she's taking the Pill."

"Remind me, which one of us is sixteen and who's twenty?" I asked incredulously, but also with a great relief. I'd finally got it off my chest and it felt like a large weight had fallen off my conscience. I'd probably never get to tell the girl from Tallahassee how sorry I was, but being forgiven by my baby sister was the next best thing.

"We'll have ample time to work on your social skills, brother of mine. But enough talk, it's time for the 2141 edition of the Tucker Bomb! You ready?"

We both chuckled and walked down to the lake. The morning light was now shining golden through the trees as we stood in the knee-deep water, splashing our bodies to avoid too much of a cold shock; I'd had one already, and knew just how chilly that water was. Once done we walked about ten meters away from the lake, took each other by the hand and ran. When we reached the water line we jumped and drew the knees to our chests.

The forest reverberated with an almighty splash as our butts hit the water.

-=/\=-

I'd never been so relieved to arrive in San Francisco before. One reason was that eighteen hours before I'd been sitting by myself at Harrington's creek on the opposite end of the continent, which meant I was dead tired, and the second was that I'd gotten away from Mom. Missing her would start soon enough in a few days' time, but the lament she'd staged had bordered on the ridiculous; it would have gotten her quite a few annoyed looks at a funeral.

A waft of stale air greeted us as the door to my apartment opened for Lizzie, and she made a bee-line for the environmental controls to get the air conditioning going.

Of course, being the big brother I'd been the dedicated mule, and set down our heavy bags with a sigh of relief. The glimmer of mirth in her eyes was still bright and alive, and it eluded my imagination how my sister could be this cheery after such a long day. After all, she'd joined me at the lake at the butt-crack of dawn as well. But then Lizzie hadn't spent the whole night before frantically finishing a two-hundred-fifty-page behemoth of an engineering paper.

The latter was, of course, my own fault. Commodore Jeffries had probably not expected much more than twenty pages on the virtues of a tri-nacelle layout over the Vulcan ring design, but I'd gotten carried away and ended up with a paper that essentially said 'Yep, it's better, but it can't hold a candle to the proposed twin-nacelle layout of the NX prototypes, except that that isn't any good either as the nacelles should be in a V layout at one-hundred twenty degrees below or above the main hull'. I'd basically specified a new warp engine layout and backed it up with the math, which was why it had taken me all summer.

I had seriously gone overboard with it, but my ambition was like a herd of wild mustangs. Good luck trying to rein it in. This was my final year at the Academy and I was hell-bent on acing it – magna cum laude with bells and whistles in gold if possible. There was one great goal drawing me like polar north draws the needle of a compass: when humanity would finally reach Warp 5 and we'd build our own deep space ship, I wanted to be on it as an engineer, preferably the _chief_ engineer, and you didn't prove yourself to be the best by turning over papers that were just 'satisfactory'.

While busy pondering the results of turning my summer break into a busman's holiday, I had missed that Lizzie was now doing the 'mom thing', inspecting my place with a critical eye.

"Quite neat, considering you've been living here on your own for two years," she said, and pouted her lips teasingly, which made her look like the spitting image of mom thirty years ago in one of the old photos in the lounge at home. She was lucky I loved her dearly, otherwise those antics would have seriously gotten on my nerves.

"What did you expect?" I asked back, slightly annoyed. "Comin' in here havin' to wade knee-deep through empty beer bottles?"

Have you ever felt like a goalkeeper who masterfully deflected a shot only for it to land right in the path of an advancing striker? I went down one-nil in an instant, when she opened the cupboard door next to the dish washer.

"Nope," she chirped triumphantly. "Those are tucked away neatly in here. You're just like Dad."

I was too knackered to make up a lame excuse or try to intimidate her by feigned manliness, so I just rolled my eyes and accepted defeat. According to the ancient scrolls of the Tucker clan, she would use this moment of having the upper hand to lay down the rules. And, since history was bound to repeat itself, it would result in me having more household chores than I ever had as a kid.

I sat down at the kitchen breakfast bar, defeated by superior female logic, and she did the same across from me after having finished her inspection of our living arrangements. She looked me straight in the eyes, resting her chin in the palms of her hands.

"I've got no problems if you have a beer or two after a long day, but those empty bottles go out every second day at the latest; _comprende_, brother of mine?"

I just nodded tiredly, and to my surprise she leaned backwards, opened the fridge and fetched out a nice cool brew, putting it before me. That was Lizzie in a nutshell. She could annoy me even more than mom, but in the end she'd always be my baby sister and make up for it. I hadn't been hot on the idea of living with her here at first, but in reality the homesickness that had gotten to me sometimes during the last two years would now not be as much of a problem. Having my favorite sibling around would make my days so much brighter.

I savored the tart sensation as the cool liquid ran down my throat.

"I'll need a bit of housekeeping money," she said. "Leave the shopping and cooking to me and you do the dishes and the laundry, okay?"

It seemed like a fair deal. She'd taken the one job I hated with a passion – shopping for groceries. Doing the dishes and throwing stuff into the washing machine wasn't that bad. I'd had to get used to that anyway over the last two years.

"I've put two hundred on your card, will that be enough for the week?" I asked, and her grin when she nodded told me that it was more than enough. I didn't know what girly things she'd spend the rest on, but in the end it didn't matter. We both had scholarships. so pinching pennies wasn't necessary.

-=/\=-

By the time we'd put all the clothes away, taken a shower and were ready for bed, I'd gone through three beers – and to my surprise, Lizzie had drunk one as well.

I was already in bed and had to stifle a laugh when my dear sister walked into the bedroom. She was slender to say the least, so a pair of my Bermuda shorts and an old t-shirt of mine looked ridiculous on her, but I didn't care. What I saw was that for all her teasing she knew which lines not to cross.

I only had a large double bed, and since she always slept naked she hadn't brought any pajamas; in fact, I don't think she even had any. She'd just raided my side of the wardrobe for some old clothes.

"Thank you," I said and gave her a peck on her cheek.

"Well I can't have my big brother freak out," she said teasingly, but this time without the usual mischievous glimmer in her eyes. We were both lying on our sides and propped up on our elbows by this time.

I rolled over to switch off the lights. I felt her soft kiss on my lips as she wished me a good night, and I soon drifted off into an exhausted slumber.

=/\=

This was _not_ how I had envisioned the start of my final year at the Academy.

Walking out into the lobby, I could see Lizzie waiting for me. Since her lessons wouldn't start before Monday she'd been in the city, and we'd arranged to meet for lunch.

Her quizzical glance met mine and I knew I had failed to hide my confusion from her. That wasn't really surprising though. I was so beside myself I was walking in two different postcodes.

She fell in step next to me as I hurried out of the building, and we walked out to the park in front of the Academy grounds. It was almost an oasis of quietness in the hectic city, with scores of colorful flowers lining the gravel paths.

Today, however, it would not do much for my mood. I was far away, and didn't even notice what it was that Lizzie was feeding me as we sat side by side on a bench. She didn't say anything yet; we just ate in silence.

But inevitably the talk came once we'd eaten through her supplies.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said and her blue eyes were filled with concern. I suppose I must have worn my emotions on my sleeve that day.

"Worse than a ghost," I sighed. "We had a refresher seminar right first thing today. The instructor was Lieutenant Erika Hernandez."

Lizzie always had a sharp mind and I could see her eyes go wide in recognition. I had emphasized the surname enough to point out the important bit. She had a good memory for detail, and I'd told her more than enough about that lost encounter with the lovely Latina at the boxing tournament for her to put two and two together in an instant.

"The woman from Tallahassee."

I confirmed her suspicion with a nod. "And she hates my ass."


	3. Lucky At Engineering, Unlucky In Love

_A/N: This is the point were I shall bow and scrape, as last time round I forgot to mention my beta reader __**LoyaulteMeLie**_._ For many moons she's been a big help in improving my writing and sorting out the mess that is a German's idea of English grammar. I don't think I can ever thank her enough, but I'll try anyway. Thanks a lot Ma'am. You're the best. :-)_

The light was dim, giving the place a back-room feel, and the stench of sweat hung heavily in the stale air, making it difficult to breathe. It didn't bother me much though.

It had taken a while for my head to clear up, and the punching bag had to pay the price for it as I pummeled the leather cylinder with all my might. The coach's glance followed my every move, and his grin made it clear that he was more than pleased with my performance. Of course he was oblivious to why I was going medieval on the thing.

"Break!"

It was hardwired into every boxer's brain that this command meant you're expected to stop whatever you're doing and step back, which I did. I felt droplets of sweat running down my temples and cheeks and some had gotten into my eyes, which stung quite a bit, but I weathered the pain. It was a good way to drown out the turmoil in my head.

Coach Witherspoon was a fifty-something-year-old man with chiseled features and a nose that had been remodeled a few times during the many fights of his career. Even at that age he still looked extremely fit, and by the look of things he was no stranger to the various torture machines in the gymnasium. His arms dwarfed some people's legs.

While I was shaking my legs and arms to relax my muscles I could see him giving me the once-over.

"That's not the first time you've done that, is it?"

His dialect was as southern as it gets – ass-end of Texas, probably. I bumped the gloves together and continued my relaxing exercises. I shook my head.

"Bay County Sectionals and Tallahassee Regionals champion in '38," I replied and the man's eyes went just a little bit wide. I had a pretty good idea which obvious question would be coming next.

"And you weren't drafted for the national team?"

Again I shook my head and stopped moving.

"I stopped after the Regionals for personal reasons. Besides, my ambitions are in the Engineering sector."

"And why take it back up now?"

I looked at him and decided to tell him the truth, even if it wasn't as glorious as some excuses could have sounded.

"I have some ambitions in the Engineering Corps. For that I need to ace my final year, and for that I can't afford to struggle for a Silver grade in Track and Field if I can score Gold in something I'm reasonably decent at."

The weathered face of the coach was split by a wide grin. "You're not the first to tell me that. Young freshman came in here today and told me a similar story. I can't wait to see the two of you sparring. But first we've got to whip you into shape. You've got a great technique and your punch needs a weapons permit, but your stamina, springiness and reflexes are rusty."

"Well, I've spent the last three years wrestling engineering books," I admitted. "Got a training program for me?"

It didn't take the coach long to come up with one.

"One hour interval training every morning; make sure you get in at least fifteen kilometers in that time. Push-ups during lunch break – start with twenty and work up to fifty - and one hour rope training or shadow-boxing in the evening."

Now _that_ sounded like a training program. No matter how that year would work out, I'd end up being fitter than I ever was.

When the coach left to look after the beginners' training group, I directed my attention back to the leather bag and continued pummeling it fiercely.

-=/\=-

Every fiber of muscle in my body was reminding me just how much my fitness had deteriorated over the last three years, but I was determined not to start my training program by looking for excuses, so I continued walking up the stairs. However, I stopped on the fourth floor, one short of where we were living. I checked that my uniform was arranged properly and propped up the small bouquet of flowers in the crook of my left elbow.

I pushed the doorbell and waited. The apartment's inhabitant was eighty-two years old, so expecting an immediate response would have been a bit preposterous. After a while the door opened slowly.

"Good evening Mrs. Zelenkova," I said in my best 'good-boy' voice, and gave her the flowers. She looked at me with a smile. The old lady didn't get many visitors, let alone visitors with flowers.

"Did you do mischief, young Kosmonaut?" she asked me in her Slavic dialect, and amusement was dancing in her weathered eyes. "Come in, please."

Mrs. Zelenkova had come to San Francisco in her youth from a place called Plzen in Europe, and could look back on a long career as a ballet dancer. She was a one-meter-sixty fragile-looking woman, and the hardships of what ballet dancing asked of a human body had left her shuffling her feet when walking. Her small body was bowed with age.

But her mind was still alert and she could still stare people into silence with her grey eyes that could fix you like lasers. Although she'd been over here for more than half a century she'd never lost her Slavic accent with its shortened vowels, raspy H's, rolling R's, and W's that became V's, and she had never become true friends with the grammar of Human Standard. She also insisted on calling me a Kosmonaut.

"Sit," she said and waddled off into the kitchen.

Having nothing better to do, I looked around her place. The wall was full of pictures from her youth, showing that Mrs. Zelenkova had been a stunningly beautiful creature; and seeing some of the brutal moves she'd had to perform made it quite obvious why she had become so frail with age.

An old cabinet, definitely from before World War III, was filled with prizes she'd won in her long career. The furniture in general looked like something you'd find in a museum. The small rivets lining the armrest of the ancient armchair I was sitting in were testament that it was actually made by a craftsman, not some machine in mass production.

She came back and I sat back into the armchair when she stared down my attempt to take the tablet from her. The old lady was a bit sensitive about the limitations that came with age, and whatever she could still do on her own she insisted on doing herself. I still remembered how long it had taken for her to accept my offer to do her grocery shopping for her.

Thanking her for the cup of coffee she'd put before me, I lifted it and inhaled the scent. Like everything else, Mrs. Zelenkova didn't like industrially produced stuff, so she bought her coffee freshly roasted (but also hideously expensive) from a small company in Colombia. Its taste was exquisite and really pointed up the shortcomings of the swill that was served by the experimental food re-sequencers in the Mess Hall.

"What can I do for you, young man? Your new girlfriend has already brought me my groceries."

I needed to compose myself a bit. I should have known that the sweet old lady would jump to conclusions. She too had been teasing me about the lack of a female companion ever since I'd moved here.

"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Mrs. Zelenkova. Lizzie is my younger sister. She got a scholarship here in 'Frisco, and since she's only sixteen my parents wanted her to live with me until she's eighteen."

"Oho, then my eyes not bad yet, there was resemblance," she replied with a smile and kept her glance on me while drinking her coffee. "But you need a woman, young Kosmonaut. I had long life and would have been sad life without husband."

I certainly hadn't come to discuss my messed up love-life with the old lady, but I saw the glimmer of joy in her eyes. She'd been living alone since her husband died four years ago, and she probably found it refreshing to have someone to look after; and hell, someone who'd been around since shortly after First Contact could perhaps give me a clue how to clean up the mess I'd made of my life.

"It's not so easy, Mrs. Zelenkova," I said vaguely and looked down into my cup. She observed me carefully.

"You have broken heart, have you?"

A probably somewhat wry smile appeared on my face. She didn't quite have the hang of that question tag malarkey, which made her speech funny at times, but also strangely endearing.

"It's not my heart that's broken," I admitted with a shake of my head. A blush of shame appeared on my cheeks. "I broke a woman's heart three years ago and as if that's not bad enough, I met her again today."

"We make stupid things when we young," she said without any judging tone in her voice, and refilled my empty cup. "You still love her much, do you?"

I sighed deeply. Having seen her again for the first time had hit me like a lightning strike. She filled my every thought, but that was a bit pointless anyway.

"I don't think it really matters. She hates me. Can't say I blame her for that."

Her glance fixed my face and for several moments she didn't say anything. Then, suddenly, she smiled again.

"If she not love you, she just forget you. Girl is afraid of broken heart again. Anger is good for hiding behind. You must repair her heart, young Kosmonaut. It not as easy as repairing my old stove, but you must try if still love her."

"If I had an idea how," I sighed. "I've repaired your kitchen appliances often enough, it's something where I know what I'm doin'. But a hyper-spanner isn't gonna help me much this time, is it?"

"First repair own heart, then repair girl's heart," she Yoda'ed with final authority, and we drank our coffee in silence as I tried to sort through my conflicting thoughts.

"But you did not come to ask about girl, did you?" She broke the silence after several minutes.

"Oh, no, even though your advice is much appreciated, ma'am. I came to tell you that I must train every evenin' and since it involves rope jumpin', there's going to be some noise. I've got a mat, but it's probably still goin' to be audible. Since it's directly over your bedroom, I wanted to ask when to train so's to not interrupt your sleep."

"Oh, don't worry, young Kosmonaut. My ears not good as my eyes, and I only go sleep after midnight. Just train and I say if too loud."

I smiled at her in gratitude and thanked her for the excellent coffee. As she said good bye, I extracted the promise from her that she'd please give me or Lizzie a call if she needed anything.

Mrs. Zelenkova's wisdom had been a bit abstract, but at least I had some sort of idea what to do. Now it was a matter of putting the theoretical concept into practice.

-=/\=-

At 0530 in the morning, Golden Gate Park was still pretty much deserted, so I could do my 15K interval training relatively undisturbed and without disturbing others, as at that time of the day I had Keezar Stadium all to myself. The coach had used a few connections to get me the code for one of the side entrances.

After two weeks in training, I started noticing that it was becoming somewhat easier. During the first week the three daily workout sessions had me constantly carrying two buckets' worth of lactic acid in my legs. But now the fitness and stamina slowly came back to me.

What did _not_ get easier was making any headway in clearing up my love-life. Thank god we only had that one forty-five-minute seminar on Thursday where I'd face Erika. It tore into my heart with the force of a rapier seeing her eyes filled with reproach and disappointment. And it wasn't an act. I'd bumped into her in the Mess Hall the other day and I could literally see the life drain from her dark eyes, to be replaced by a look of pain and sadness before she turned her head away. When I'd tried to speak, however, the barriers slammed down like sheets of solid duranium. She wasn't having any of it.

In one aspect Mrs. Zelenkova had been right. Erika wasn't angry, she was hurting. But with the all the pride of her Mexican heritage, she wasn't going to buckle. _She'd _done nothing to be ashamed of. That honor was all mine.

With steady breaths I sucked in the morning air as I circled the stadium's track. With so much greenery around the air was distinctly fresher out here. The early morning sun was working on removing the droplets of a midnight rain shower from the blue plastic seats and the painted guard rails. Its light reflected in the myriad of drops, creating the illusion of little lights glinting in them as I ran past.

A look at my smart watch told me that I was well on track to a new personal best. I had increased the number of intermediate sprints, which had taken up my average speed by about one kilometer per hour, and I would therefore beat the 16kph mark if I kept up the pace.

What that meant was that I'd make a first attempt at mending fences with Erika, if that was at all possible. I'd made the resolution that, as soon as I got past 16, I'd take the plunge. (Yes, yes, I was a pitiful coward hiding behind arbitrary reasons; so sue me.) My warped reasoning was that the confidence of improving my fitness would somehow bleed over into my attempts to recapture Erika's heart, because in that regard I had all the confidence of a slug.

-=/\=-

Ignoring the sting of my muscles from the morning's running, I made my way into Commodore Jeffries' office. Since today's Engineering lecture was scheduled to include the return of our papers, I was wondering why I'd been called in beforehand. Well, in truth there were only two realistic chances. Either he'd be impressed or he'd be chewing me out for being so preposterous as to think I could teach people who, unlike me, had actually graduated already.

The unfamiliar waft of old paper greeted me. Jeffries' office was basically a library with all walls bar the windowed front lined with large shelves full of books. Not too many people these days insisted on having their books printed and bound.

The large desk, made from mahogany wood, impeccably polished, gave the whole office a somewhat imperious ambience. Jeffries wasn't so much sitting behind a desk, he was sitting on a throne. Standing before it, reporting in as ordered, was a humbling experience. It reminded me that I was but a lowly cadet, checked out by humanity's prime engineering mastermind.

"Tucker, what did you do during your summer break?" he asked without preamble, his look dispassionate enough to make a Vulcan go 'not bad'.

"I was working on my paper, sir." I tried to sound suitably deferential.

"What else?" came the follow-up question, and he was still not giving away what this was all about.

"Just working on my paper, sir," I parroted. "It took a bit longer than initially expected."

"So, you expect me to believe that you've spent every day of your three-month break working on this," he said with a challenging tone, and lifted up the paper – well, book really - that I'd written over the summer.

"Yes, sir."

"How did you get hold of a copy of Henry Archer's Warp five thesis? It's quoted in here."

"The library at Advanced Propulsion Inc. has a copy. My Dad worked there, and his lib card is still valid," I explained.

"Have they tried to recruit you?"

Now it became clear what this was all about. He knew I couldn't have gotten some of the books I referenced in the Starfleet library, and was afraid I'd be head-hunted.

"They tried, in fact they try every time I go there," I admitted. "But API builds engines and no starships, and I wanna go out there with the first warp 5 ship, preferably as ChiefEng."

Jeffries stared blankly at me for a moment and then he started laughing.

"I like people with ambitions," he said amid laughs, but once he'd calmed down, he fixed me with a serious look. "Tucker, I've had a word with Starfleet Command. I want to take you off the Engineering course and put you straight on Captain O'Riordan's research team."

Say what? I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Getting on the R&amp;D team required a graduation and a Lieutenant's rank. Putting a mere Cadet on it was unheard of. More importantly, it would allow me to have some good news for a change. With the messed up situation with Erika constantly hanging over my head like a dark cloud that followed me everywhere, it felt so great having at least some success in the business part of my life.

"I don't know what to say, sir," I stammered, grinning like an idiot and unable to believe my luck.

"Don't thank me too quickly," Jeffries said with a serious mien. "You'll step on some people's toes, so don't expect a hero's welcome, but you're too good to be bored out of your skull in a seminar that can't teach you anything new. Whenever there's an Engineering lesson or seminar on, you'll report to Captain O'Riordan."

"Yes, sir," I replied enthusiastically.

"And only during those times," the Commodore added. "All other subjects continue as normal. If you can't back it up with a top graduation score, your time there will be over before you know. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear, sir."

Once dismissed, I walked out of there with a massive spring in my step. I was so hyped at that moment, I even felt confident about that message to Erika.

-=/\=-

The living room had a strange, even eerie atmosphere about it, as it was only lit by my small desk lamp. I emptied yet another beer, the second, and didn't get a step further.

My enthusiasm about the assignment to R&amp;D had only carried me so far. Now that I actually tried to get a message together, I hadn't gotten past "Dear Erika" after half an hour. I'd had a few brushes with blank page syndrome while cobbling together that monstrous paper, but this was a full-on writer's block. How do you tell a woman you're sorry, when you're three years late doing it?

My bout of self-pity was interrupted by the pitter-patter of naked feet on the laminate floor. Turning around I saw Lizzie on a direct approach vector. She was rubbing her eyes, obviously having woken up. Most likely she'd started from her slumber because she was missing someone to snuggle up to during the night.

She wore one of the new pajamas she'd bought, her hair rumpled up in all directions and her face pale with tiredness.

Half asleep, she swung a leg over mine and sat down on my knees, facing me. After yawning at me long and wide enough to have given me time to do a tonsillectomy, she put her forearms around my neck and put her forehead against mine.

"Whatcha doin' here in the middle of the night?" she asked sleepily.

"Gotta write something," I answered. "Go back to sleep. I'll be done soon."

"You're tryin' to write to her, aren't you?" she said; her voice was still muzzy but she was reasonably awake by now. She sat up and stole a large swig from my beer.

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "And since you help yourself to my beer can you contribute something to the course?"

She looked at me, her eyelids drooping with sleepiness.

"Remember, she got interested in you while you were beating up other guys. She obviously likes strong guys. Say sorry, but don't grovel. Didn't you get a ticket with your sign-up for the qualification tournament?"

I nodded.

"Well, it's your best chance is to show her that the part of you she was smitten with still exists. When she's realized that, you can try convincing her that the weakling of three years ago, the one who ran away from his responsibility has matured. Rest is up to you."

Sometimes I was utterly stumped by my baby sister. She liked to cuddle up to me like a kid in her parents' bed, wore girlish pajamas with silly teddy bears that would look out of place on a nine-year old, yet when it came to serious stuff she was wiser than me by leaps and bounds by the look of it.

Having said her bit, she plopped a peck on my lips and shuffled back to the bedroom.

And then, almost as though she'd cast some kind of magic spell over me or the keyboard, the words were coming on their own.

To: Hernandez Mendoza, Erika Maria, Lt.  
From: Tucker, Charles Anthony, Cdt3  
Re: Things I wanted to say for a long time

Dear Erika,

I've spent the last two weeks since I saw you again racking my brains if I should write this message or not, but in the end if I don't I'll just increase the time by which I'm late saying what I should have said a long time ago.

Even if it may be hard to believe after three years, but I regret a lot of things, but certainly not that I met you. What I regret the most is that I could punch a guy's lights out without problems, but I couldn't deal like a man with the night we spent together.

I'm not going to sing the Mea Culpa here, we both mucked up that night to a degree, but instead of dealing with the possible consequences I ran and hid like a coward. All I can say is that I've worked on that part and that I'm truly sorry for disappointing you, because having won the few hours we were together was much more valuable than the trophy I got for bashing some guys' teeth in.

Sincerely, Trip.

Ps: If you still like boxing – In the attachment you'll find a ticket for the qualification tournament in October.

I hit 'Send' before I could change my mind again, and made my way to the bedroom. As soon as I had crawled under the sheets Lizzie rolled over and slung her arm around my waist.

Well, for better or worse, the die was cast. There was no more I could do than wait for her response.

Sleep swallowed me in an instant.


	4. Painful Baby Steps

I had to give it to the guy, he was good. Granted he was some sort of upper class British snot, and therefore quite annoying in his attitude, but when it came to the ring business he could play with the big boys. Light Heavyweight boxing was a matter of speed and agility, and that was a bit of an Achilles' heel for me.

If I went on a strict diet I could dip below the limit and fight in Middleweight like three years ago, but I had barely any fat on me as it was, so I'd have had to bleed off muscle mass. Instead I'd used the last six weeks to bulk up quite a bit, improving my hook to 7.500 Newton and the straight punch to 3.800N. I'd have to rely on punching power and the fact that the greater relative muscle mass would allow me to take a few more jabs than those who had to trade muscles for weight.

"Break!"

The Coach stepped in after I'd landed a slightly hard upper cut on the Brit's chin and he was staggering a bit. His eyes were glazed over by force of the blow, and I could see the annoyance in his face after he'd shaken his senses back into order. We bumped our right fists and turned to listen to the coach.

"Reed, you aren't Muhammad Ali. Agility is good, but you haven't shaken your opponent a single time. You rely too much on your stamina and point wins. Ring officials make mistakes."

The Brit nodded acknowledgment, and the coach turned to me.

"Tucker, have you taken root or something? You're moving less than a 250-pound washed-up heavyweight fighter. More agility, and try to control your punch. It's only a week to the tournament. You're not supposed to put his lights out."

We bumped fists again and went on with the sparring.

-=/\=-

I could hear the humming of ground cars outside as I was busy with my evening training. It mixed with the whirr of the speed rope as it circled at full chat. I was switching between speed steps and double under exercises. Sweat ran down my face and torso by the bucketload and collected in the hem of my shorts. Finally I stopped the exercise and drank a hefty load of water. Two to three liters would go down my throat in a ninety minute session.

Continuing my exercise, I had time to reminisce on the first six weeks back in San Francisco. On the all-encompassing topic of meeting Erika again, there were some mixed messages.

Life with Lizzie was going without a hitch. The household chores were evenly split, and I sure couldn't complain about the cooking. Lizzie's food was second only to mom's, in fact I'd have to make sure that I never, _ever_ let slip my tongue and let our maternal ancestor know that Lizzie's pecan pie and Jambalaya were actually even better than hers.

Leave it to my sister to scout the area until she found out where she could go swimming without a pesky swimsuit. She'd found an officially designated nude beach at Point Reyes, but it was quite a ride down there so we'd only been there twice on a weekend; and unlike back home in Panama City, out here there was actually something vaguely resembling winter, so October meant pretty much 'game over' as far as swimming in the ocean was concerned.

Commodore Jeffries hadn't exaggerated when he told me that not everybody would be happy with my visits to the R&amp;D team. Quite a few people, in fact pretty much all of them, were suspicious of me, and I was left to my own devices trying to work out the simulations for my 120 V-design. But then, the cold shoulder was something I was quite familiar with in my interaction with Erika.

I stopped my exercise when the door was opened.

"Phoo, it stinks like man in here," Lizzie mocked me with a grin as she walked past and opened the second window as well. The draught engulfed my body and made me shiver slightly. My sister was walking around me with an appraising glance.

"You've bulked up quite a bit. I don't think you had those muscles three years ago."

She squeezed my right bicep and made mock-mooning eyes at me.

"Yeah," I said. "But now I'm agile like a gazelle, or what's that grey animal with a trunk called?"

She laughed softly and sat down on a chair. She was wearing a pair of tight fitting pants and a rather unremarkable yellow shirt. The sight of my sister holding a beer bottle was still rather strange. Granted, she was quite responsible about it and never drank more than one or two bottles every few days, but mom would probably still demand my head on a stake, which was ridiculous, as Lizzie could just hop on a shuttle to Europe and buy the stuff legally there. It was only our 'enlightened' American society which clung stubbornly to the ridiculous 21-year age limit.

"It's been four weeks, did she react to your message?" she asked out of the blue.

I put the rope aside and sat down on the ground. Upon my signal Lizzie chucked me a beer and I caught it mid-air. My reflexes were definitely improving.

"She never mentioned it. But I think she's read it. For the last two weeks we're at least able to say 'Good mornin''. and she doesn't ignore me in class anymore. It's all strictly business though."

Lizzie shook her head. "That's good, but not important. She couldn't ignore you indefinitely in class. That'd be trouble for her. What about her body language, her eyes? Take it from a girl – what we _say_ and what we _want_ are sometimes two completely different things."

I chuckled. "Mrs. Zelenkova said the same the other day, when I – again – repaired her stove. Seriously, I'm ready to buy her a new one."

"Don't change the topic," Lizzie insisted gently. "What about Erika's eyes?"

The question made me sigh. "I think she doesn't hurt as much anymore, but then I never get to look her in the eyes much. She immediately looks away. If I was any good at readin' women, I wouldn't have fucked up so badly three years ago. I'd say she looks at me – doubtful, indifferent – something like that."

"How about 'insecure'?" Lizzie suggested. "She's more than ten years older than you. She sleeps with a young guy and then he drops her like a hot potato. Suddenly three years later she gets a message from him. How's she to believe that you're not just after another night with a woman who knows how to please a guy? Imagine some older guy bedded me and then ran off, and then three years on he suddenly gets in touch again out of the blue. I'd think he just wanted to have a young chick again. Same for her, only other way round."

The implicit reproach hurt, in fact quite a bit, but then I really deserved to hurt. In all the six weeks of racking my brain I'd never realized something so blatantly obvious. I'd marveled so much at my not giving a hoot how much older or not she was that I'd never even considered that she might be insecure about it, and how my messed-up reaction might have hurt her. Sometimes I really was an insensitive ape.

"Don't rush it, Trip," Lizzie said. "It's baby steps. If she couldn't be in the same room as you, she'd have asked for a transfer. But it will take time."

"Thanks, Lizzie."

I put my back against the wall, drinking my beer, sunk in thought.

-=/\=-

Any non-engineering inclined person would probably go insane among all the blinking lights, beeps, whistles and grinding noises by a myriad of computers around, but this was the cacophony of progress. I liked working in the R&amp;D lab, as I believed that every hour spent in here was one hour closer to my ultimate goal of making ChiefEng one day.

The intermediate goal was to get on the Warp 3 program, and the people for that would be recruited from this very team, so even if I was a sort of alien element within it, technically I was in the pool for the selection. It was like tomorrow's qualification tournament. I was literally boxing above my weight, so I didn't have much expectation, but I was in it; and from then on, depending on my performance – everything could happen.

As I was firing up my simulation framework, I heard the squeak of someone sitting down in a chair next to me. Some guy, probably around forty, had settled himself down there and fixed me with in inquisitive glance. He was a sturdy guy with hair that was interspersed with grey strains. His face was weathered. It was easy to see that he'd been around the block a few times. The rank insignia of Command Master Chief Petty Officer on his uniform gave me an inkling of his identity.

"Master Chief?" I asked, just in case he had some important business with a lowly cadet.

"Don't panic, young'un," he said. "I just dropped by to ask how you're doing. The team's not really going out of their way to welcome you."

Putting down my tools, I faced him with an inquisitive look. "Can't say I blame them. They've all graduated in gold and had to make Lieutenant to get on the team. Suddenly they have a Cadet plonked in front of them."

"Bollocks," the Chief growled. "Nobody put you here for your good looks. You must have some serious talent. And one thing you need to learn – Engineering is a meritocracy. You're good enough to be put in as a cadet. That makes some people around here shit bricks. Because we all have the same ambition – Warp 3 program and then the Warp 5 ship – and most realize that if you're half as good as Jeffries thinks you are, one of them's gonna lose out."

"I take it you never tried out for the Diplomatic Corps, Chief?" I couldn't help crack a wise one about the man's ripe selection of words.

He just laughed. "I'm called Rant Varley for a reason," he said and held out his hand.

I took it. "Trip Tucker."

But I had a feeling he already knew that.

-=/\=-

The day did start quite well. Lizzie had accompanied me to the reconfigured assembly hall, but had then left me there, heading off towards the city on her own. She'd never been good at seeing her big brother getting beaten up, even in the process of beating some other guy even harder. A look at the draft brought more good news. The Brit and I were both drawn into group C, so even if we both made it out of the group stage we couldn't be matched up again before the final, in which case we'd both be qualified for the Finals Tournament in November.

The system was pretty simple. The sixteen quarter-finalists from last year were set for the finals, and there were four qualification tournaments in 'Frisco, Anchorage, Bilbao and Singapore – of which the finalists qualified for the finals here in Fog City. Looking around in the warm-up area, I reckoned there were only three with a realistic chance of making it: myself, the limey, and some massive steam-hammer of a guy from Argentina – only 1.69m but he had muscles on top of his muscles.

The other contenders were mainly guys who'd missed the proper weight class. Either they were tall with good range, but they'd had to starve off too much weight, and two or three blokes who were definitely too short for their weight, a condition also known as 'being fat'.

Having gone through my warm-up, I walked to the exit and craned my neck to get a look at the main hall. The Ring was naturally situated in the center, and the whole place was filled with a hideous cacophony comprised of blaring music with way too much bass, and people talking over each other. Unfortunately I couldn't get a clear look at the first rows, so I couldn't make out if she'd come or an empty seat signaled that she'd just thrown the ticket in the digital recycle bin.

The uncertainty was driving me crazier than the upcoming fights. My thoughts were drowned out by a loud voice though.

"Hey, Trip!"

I looked around and saw Chief Varley sitting in one of the bleachers. I gave him a grin and raised my already gloved hand in salute.

"Knock 'em dead, kiddo!"

I answered by bumping my two gloves together in front of my chest. The chief gave me a thumbs-up and directed his attention back at the ring, where the introductions were starting. Since my first fight was number four on the list I still had up to forty-five minutes to wait, so I went back to some light warm-up training.

Since this event was sanctioned by Starfleet's own sporting organization, the rules differed slightly from the normal amateur rules. We were requested to wear head protectors like in amateur competitions, but we were allowed to fight bare-chested like professionals. As far as I could tell, only Limey and I had chosen to ditch the shirt.

My decision to do so was as opportunistic as it was macho. Seven weeks of grueling training had burned the last bit of fat off my frame, and I was looking quite bulky, with muscles well defined. In fact I'd discovered that I could do the 'jiggle my man boobs' trick that Bruce Lee and Bolo Yeung used to do in those ancient movies by flexing the _pectoralis minor_. And I was just asshole enough to use it to intimidate some of the more insecure guys. Looking at Limey's frame, which was more strongly built than you'd expect for a guy of his relatively modest height, I was sure he was planning a similar strategy.

The call came for my first fight and my entrance music started playing – the finale of Guns 'n Roses' 'November Rain', a one-hundred-fifty-year-old piece of good ol' guitar molestation that beat the pants of all the electronically enhanced crap people were listening to these days. I had the hood of my silken robe drawn deep into my face, which made me look a bit more badass, but in reality I just didn't want people to notice how I was frantically scanning the rows round the edge of it.

I was just about to enter the ring, resigning myself to the fact that she'd canned the ticket, when my heart skipped a beat and I nearly got tangled in the ropes. There she was, second row behind the officials' table. Her face was unreadable, but for the first time since we'd met again, she didn't look away when our glances met. Her dark eyes seemed to challenge me. She held my gaze as if to say 'show me that fighter again'.

I chucked off the robe and got a bit of an annoyed look from the coach when they had to pick it up from the ring floor. I couldn't give a damn. Right now I felt in full badass mode. I flexed my muscles, sending my opponent an arrogant look of superiority.

The guy in the other corner was a chubby Asian man who frankly looked afraid of his own shadow. I flared my nostrils slightly and skipped on the balls of my feet as the ring announcer read out the blurb. After the customary instructions and the fist bump we started testing each other out.

The guy was even slower than I, but after the first few jabs I'd pretty much worked out what his tactic was. With quite a bit of fatty layer to protect his bulk he could take quite a few punches, and he was waiting for the chance to land a lucky punch of his own in return.

I unsettled him with a left jab and when he prepared for the punch from the right, I just put in two more left jabs through his neglected defense instead. He stumbled backwards into the ropes and I waited for him to be deflected forward. When he came back toward me I thumped a straight right in between his two raised gloves and he sunk to his knees, as boneless as a wet sack of potatoes, nose bleeding and his brain too foggy from the impact to get back up in time.

I raised my fist in recognition of the ten count and my first glance went over to her. She wore a similar dress to the one she'd worn that fateful day three years ago, which I took for an encouraging sign, but her face still sported an ever so slight frown and her eyes still had that challenging look in them.

The second fight was pretty much more of the same. I was pitted against a jittery, lanky black guy who rashly charged ahead right into a thundering upper-cut. The whole thing was over twenty-five seconds into the first round.

The third fight was to be the doozy. Both Reed and I had won our first two fights by a knockout in the first round so we'd barely broke a sweat so far, and we were already through to the quarter finals. The only two decisions left were who'd win the group – the loser would have to fight the monstrous Argentine – and whose bare chest the ladies would dig more – my relatively smooth, muscular one or Reed's furry one.

By now it had become almost instinctive to look over at Erika; she was still sitting there, her face and glance unreadable. But still, the fact that she looked at me at all was like an energy infusion every time.

The first round was nothing to write home about. We pretty much cancelled each other out. The Brit was quick, but his punch couldn't really rattle me. He'd won his two K.O.'s by grinding the opponents down with lightning quick combinations, but he was clever enough not to try it with me yet. That would have given me a chance to thump one in. So in the end we'd probably drawn the round.

As I was sitting in my corner, I remembered something. The one day the Brit had dropped his bag in the gym and flight sickness meds had fallen out. That meant he had a sensitive stomach. My strategy for round two was clear.

Except, of course, that he'd riddled it out a few seconds into the second round. He continued skipping and dancing around me, but since he'd lowered his defense a bit to protect his vulnerable stomach, I'd succeeded in getting two punches in on his chin. The second round was theoretically going to be mine by a small margin.

I was breathing heavily as we prepared for the third round. Erika was still doing a pretty good impression of a Vulcan, but my opponent was nervous. He knew he had to win the next round by knockout or a large margin of points, but if he went on the offensive, he'd have to expose himself to my superior punching power. I had him between a rock and a hard place – right where I wanted him.

The bell rang. With a last look at Erika, I made my way to the center of the ring – and then I went to town on my opponent. With all at stake, we both went at it hell for leather. The limey even developed something akin to a punch, mainly lightning quick triple and quadruple combinations that rattled me something fierce. However, sometime halfway into the round I landed an uppercut in the pit of his stomach, and his face went pale.

To his honor, it should be said that he took it like a trooper and continued on, but I had him rattled right enough. He was neglecting his defense and I finally connected a crashing right hook to the bridge of his nose. His lights went out in an instant. He swayed sideways and then his eyes rolled shut and he fell.

The referee called the fight, but I stepped forward to catch the falling Brit. He seemed to have crumpled up and would have crashed to the ground face first, which would've most likely been the end of the tournament for him, if his complete blackout already wasn't. I carefully lowered him to the floor. The crowd cheered, but mere seconds later the ovations turned into boos and catcalls. Still supporting the guy's head against the inside of my glove, I looked up and saw that I'd been disqualified for an illegal attempt at fighting after the break.

_Say What?_

I was standing in the ring, open-mouthed and feeling like the village idiot, unable to comprehend what was going on. I'd merely tried to make sure the guy didn't end up with a concussion or a broken nose, and I was busted for it. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say.

I looked over at Erika, and for the first time her mood had changed – she was visibly upset. Whether this was about the ref's decision or my naiveté, however, was anyone's guess. Most of the crowd was definitely not too happy with the ref. Thankfully, the consequences were limited. We'd both been through to the quarters anyway, but Reed had won the group and I had to fight the Argentinean Gorilla now.

I was still shaking my head in disbelief as I left the ring. Looking back as I climbed through the ropes, I could see that Reed was coming to, but he was still on the ground. I should have known, of course. Every contact with the opponent after the ref had broken the fight was strictly illegal. The hard truth was, I should have watched him slam to the floor or hoped that the ref would catch his fall. But that was the theory. I'd mucked it up with a false sense of camaraderie.

I would probably have taken a psychological hit right there and then if it wasn't for the crowd. While the ring announcer was still babbling on about which passages of the rules I'd violated, I saw Varley stand up applauding me; and it didn't take more than a blink of an eye and the whole audience was standing too, their roars completely drowning out the geezer in the centre of the ring. Yes, Erika was standing, too. But this time it was I who averted my eyes. I gave the physio a sideways look and he pulled the hood of my robe deeper and pushed my head down to hide my face from the crowd. I didn't want anyone to see the tears of emotions welling up as the crowd sent me off with cheers.

-=/\=-

The wait was excruciating. After the group stages, the lunch break had me sitting for two long hours waiting for the continuation of the fights. That was an awfully long time to be chewing on what happened. The briefing I was getting on the Argentinean was not exactly encouraging either. He was slower than I was, but also stronger. He was said to have a 9.500N hook – those were heavyweight numbers. He was relying on brute force.

"Know anything about Reed?" I asked my physio, after an official had announced the T-minus-ten countdown.

"He's still being checked out at Starfleet Medical, but it looks like he's gonna come back. They moved his fight to last bout in the quarters."

I acknowledged the news with a nod. At least I hadn't thrown the fight in vain.

When we started walking into the hall, the cheers returned. The whole crowd went into a frenzy, and this time I soaked it up, trying to draw strength from it. I would badly need it against the steam hammer from Patagonia. None of his three opponents in the group stage had still looked anything like before the fight by the time it had ended. This guy didn't beat his opponents, he defaced them.

The bell rang, and I immediately stumbled backwards as I took a left hook to the temple. I used my jab to keep him at a safe distance, trying to use my longer reach to keep him off my ass, but it was hard work. If nothing else helped, the guy just pelted a thundering straight punch at my defense. The blow was, of course, cushioned by my own gloves, but it was a long series of little stings. My breathing became disrupted, and soon I was laboring from the stitch in my right side. At the moment I only wanted to survive to the bell, but in a momentary lapse of concentration I ran straight into his murderous punch, and as I reeled backwards from it I immediately felt the warmth of blood gushing from a cut in the right eyebrow. Fortunately, there were only a few seconds remaining. When the bell rang I staggered back to my corner. I couldn't remember ever before being so grateful for the respite.

My right eye was swelling shut, and I nearly passed out from the searing pain when they stapled the cut right then and there. I didn't even have the strength to look for Erika, and frankly I had an idea how I looked; she didn't need to see that.

"You look like an utter pirate," a voice with an immaculate British accent said from the off. Peering to the right with my one useable eye, I saw the Brit standing in my corner. He grabbed my right glove with both hands. "Thanks, mate."

I just nodded. "See you in the final, Reed," I said with some difficulty. "Glad you made it."

"First you've got to beat that gorilla before he welds your other eye shut as well. His upper cut is a trifle weak and he exposes the liver and the left kidney. The rest is up to you. Good luck."

Without waiting for my response he climbed down the stairs and walked off.

The bell went, and I started skipping around more than usual. It was probably looking a bit ungainly, but it was hard to scout his left flank with just my left eye. I took a few minor hits, and once I was confident I'd found his weakness, I went for it. I put my head down and pounded his left flank with a triple hook combination and he stumbled, but not before landing an uppercut in my mug, right on the eyebrow again – that was no coincidence. He wanted to punch my eyes shut so I'd be taken out by TKO.

On one hand Reed had been right. In comparison to his deadly punches, the Argentinean's uppercut was nothing to write home about, but he'd hit me square on the eye, so I knew it was only a matter of two, perhaps three minutes before the left eye would be at least partially shut as well. While the ref was still counting out the gorilla, I snatched a glimpse at Erika. She was frozen, her hands clutched over her mouth and nose. She was worried about me. That was all the motivation I needed.

The uncouth klutz in the other corner had recovered on the eight count, and I could see he was desperate to secure his flanks. That opened a gap in his defense. I growled like a grizzly as I waded into him again, and in a fit of rage I fired a sequence of straight punches at his exposed solar plexus. His eyes went wide and he sunk to his left knee as if to receive a knighthood. I gave him one – with a right hook to his temple, and he fell over.

There was complete and utter pandemonium in the crowd. My left eye was starting to swell so my whole vision consisted of a little slit to peek through, but I didn't need to see anything. Four hundred people chanting "Tucker, Tucker" did the trick. A few tears trickled out of my left eye and stung in it like hell, obscuring the pitiful amount of vision I had left.

-=/\=-

I was lying on a folding biobed in the warmup area with two ice packs over my eyes. My semi-final had been moved to second position, which gave us thirty more minutes to get the swellings down. I heard some commotion nearby.

"Hey lady, you can't come in here!"

That was unmistakably the coach, but it was the other voice that caught my attention.

"Let me through, now!" a female voice hissed and I knew that voice all too well. I'd spent seven weeks hoping to hear it again – if perhaps somewhat more gentle in tone.

"Let her through coach, will ya," I called out, and I heard a clacking sound coming towards the biobed. Erika still had the knack for high heels by the sound of it. Her legs were the longest I'd ever seen, and the heels set them off to perfection.

I was almost blinded when my battered eyes were hit by the overhead lighting as the ice packs were taken off. My left eye had recovered somewhat, but the right one was still a mere slit. They'd never clear me to fight like that.

Looking up, I saw her near for the first time. She was as beautiful as she'd been the day we met. Her look was filled with sorrow and concern, but she didn't say a thing. She produced the small Starfleet issue Swiss army knife and started cutting some sort of green stalk in half. I wanted to say something, but though I tried, the words would simply not leave my mouth. She put her finger on my battered lips to silence me. The gentle touch sent an electrifying wave through my body.

She squeezed some milky liquid out of the greenery into her palm then rubbed her finger in it.

"Close your eyes," she commanded.

I was seeing stars as I felt a stinging when she started to apply the stuff to my swollen eyes.

'_Remember, she got interested in you while you were beating up other guys. She obviously likes strong guys.'_

Those words of wisdom from Lizzie came to my mind when I was about to groan in pain. I balled my hands into fists and weathered the stinging of it on my skin.

For at least thirty minutes she continued to balm my battered face with the stuff, and although it still smarted, I could feel that it was helping. Perhaps my right eye wouldn't be perfectly fine, but most likely it'd be enough to be cleared for the fight.

But all that didn't matter to me. The one thing on my mind was that she was holding my hand! With one hand she embalmed my eyes; with the other she held mine. We hadn't spoken a single word, yet this tiny gesture made me feel like a PADD with a plugged-in charger. She was feeding me new energy.

"Ten minutes, guys!" an official announced, and I wanted to throttle the guy for spoiling this moment.

Erika helped me sit up. The right side of my vision was still blurred a bit, but it was okay. I would find the way to the ring myself. She gave the coach the remaining stalks of what turned out to be Aloe Vera, and provided the physio with instruction on how to further work on my brows after the semi-final. With a last undecipherable look back at me she walked away, and my heart sank when I saw she walked towards the exit, not back to the audience.

But now I had to concentrate on the fight.

When I walked back to the entrance into the hall I heard murmurs and general discontent in the audience and wondered what was going on; some guy (I suspected it was the ring doctor) tinkered around with my face and had me count the various combinations of fingers he held up. Then he went off.

A few minutes later there was a triple sound of the bell.

"Ladies and Gentlemen: The ring doctor has informed us that Cadet Charles Anthony Tucker has been cleared to fight."

The crowd went nuts, and I had goose bumps all over when 'November Rain' started to play again. For a moment I even forgot the disappointment about Erika leaving. I still had those few minutes in the warm-up area to savor.

When we arrived in the ring I saw my opponent, a lanky guy bordering on skinny. He was definitely one of those who'd missed the right weight class.

"How the hell did he make it to the semis?" I asked in disbelief.

"Lucky draw and tight wins by points," the coach said. "Make it short and brutal, Trip. The earlier you send him to the deck the more time we have to work on your swelling."

"Fifteen seconds sound okay?" I asked arrogantly.

"Sounds about right," Witherspoon answered with a chuckle.

The gong went, and I could see the fear in the guy's eyes. I had goose bumps because of the crowd; he had them because he was shitting bricks. But I wasn't in the mood for compassion. I swung my torso left and right a few times to check out his reflexes. There were none. After unsettling him with a left jab, I hoofed in a crashing right hook to the bridge of his nose.

He stumbled back into the ropes and sank down on his butt. His head was wobbling about in total disorientation. The towel came flying in from his corner and the bell rang three times.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, winner by submission in the seventh second of the first round – Cadet 3rd year Charles Anthony 'Trip' Tucker the Third!"

My eyes went wide when I looked over to see if Erika had returned. She had not. In her seat was a familiar face though.

Mrs. Zelenkova.


	5. Getting To Know You

_A/N: I know the guy, who's going to point out that the point numbers are not correct for an amateur fight, has already been born. But may I point out that this is a work of fiction and no martial arts rule book? ;)_

_Also there's a bit of a love scene in it that's not graphical enough to warrant an M rating in my opinion. Big Kudos go to Diana Gabaldon and my beta reader LoyalteMeLie for the valuable help with it. For those who want to read the full scene in all gynaecological and urological detail - there's a side story with the hidden scenes coming to AO3 in the next days._

The final was completely anti-climatic. Both Reed and I had each taken a big knock-out during the tournament, so we both weren't exactly fresh, and our fighting styles still cancelled each other out. Unfortunately I hadn't recovered enough from the brawl with the Argentinean gorilla, and Reed dominated the third round with several hits to my torso – not enough to knock me over, but enough to ring up points. The bout went to full time and he won the fight by a unanimous judges' decision, 116 points to 111.

I couldn't care less. My biggest win was holding Erika's hand, even if it was just one final time. I still didn't know what to make of it.

-=/\=-

The stairs up to our apartment seemed endless, but I'd not used the elevator once since coming back here and I wasn't going to start now. When I reached the fourth floor, I saw Mrs. Zelenkova standing in front of her door.

"Hi Mrs. Zelenkova."

"You fight good," she said with a smile, but I just shrugged, leaning against the guard rail of the stairs.

"Would have liked to win it, but I was too knackered," I apologized for my defeat.

"Biggest prize is not medal," she said shaking her head. "You not win heart back of beautiful girl, but found way to it."

"You've spoken to her, haven't you?" I asked, as the pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.

"Sometimes young people need wisdom of old woman," she said vaguely. "Now hard work starts, young Kosmonaut, in ring and in love."

She gave me a knowing smile and turned to shuffle back into her apartment.

"Thank you Mrs. Zelenkova, for everything."

She just smiled at me and closed the door.

-=/\=-

Now, at the end of October, the night fell early. I was standing at the open window looking out at the clear sky showing the myriad of stars. One day I'd be out there seeing them up close. The cool breeze felt good on my battered face.

Lizzie had reacted hysterically when I'd come home. She'd never liked seeing me getting battered, and when she saw my disfigured mug she lost it big time. It had taken me an hour to calm her down. Fortunately, she was finally sleeping now.

I was taking a swig from my beer when I heard the soft beep of a PADD. It was an incoming message.

To: Tucker, Charles Anthony, Cdt3  
From: Hernandez Mendoza, Erika Maria, Lt.  
Re: Training Partner

Have my yearly fitness check coming up in December. Could use a training partner. Any suggestions?

Erika

My heart jumped in circles and I remembered the words of Mrs. Zelenkova. That's what she meant by saying that I might not have won her heart back, but I may have opened a way back towards it. Erika wasn't jumping into my arms, but she was reaching out. At the moment I would take the slightest chance. I opened the onscreen keypad and typed the answer.

To: Hernandez Mendoza, Erika Maria, Lt.  
From: Tucker, Charles Anthony, Cdt3  
Re: Re: Training Partner

Hope you're an early riser. Training every morning 0530, north entrance Golden Gate Park. Would love to have company.

Trip

The answer came promptly.

To: Tucker, Charles Anthony, Cdt3  
From: Hernandez Mendoza, Erika Maria, Lt.  
Re: Re: Re: Training Partner

Oh dear. Okay, 0530 it is. Good night.

Davai posnakomimsya,  
Erika

The last one choked me up. She had remembered that I spoke a bit of Russian because of my great granddad, as did she because she'd had a Russian boyfriend in the past. We'd made a bit of a game out of it, talking dirty in Russian while she was taking my virginity that night three years ago. But this wasn't dirty talk. It meant "Let's get to know each other". She wanted to start over from scratch. I blinked away a tear of joy before it could fall.

-=/\=-

Temperatures were mild despite the early morning hour, but today the air tasted especially fresh and sweet. The chirping of early birds was a veritable symphony as I floated towards the north entrance of Golden Gate Park. Of course I was hopelessly early, so I took the opportunity to soak in the serene atmosphere of the place.

On a Sunday morning there were no people around at this time and the sun was only just sending in the first silvery rays of light. I've always liked early dawn. The panorama of differently colored light as the sun crept over the horizon had always created a special ambience for me. Unfortunately, today the spectacle was somewhat spoiled by the sunglasses I was wearing. My face was shining in all colors of the rainbow, especially around the eyes. That guy from Argentina had left me with plenty of souvenirs, and they'd take a while to fade.

Suddenly the early morning got even brighter. I'd had a subconscious doubt whether Erika would show up, but now she was really walking up to me. Her hair was bound in a ponytail; her glance was a bit sleepy but warm, not the empty look I'd seen so often on her face in recent weeks, but the greatest thing of all was that blindingly beautiful smile – it was back.

There was a moment of awkward silence as we stood and looked at each other. I stuck out my hand and with a look of slight confusion she took it.

"Charles Tucker III. My friends call me Trip," I introduced myself formally.

Her face lit up when she realized that I had gotten the starting-over reference in the last message, and she answered in kind.

"Erika Maria Hernandez Mendoza. My friends call me Erika."

I smiled back and decided to avoid any awkwardness by getting right down to business.

I indicated her to follow and jogged away lightly. She fell in step next to me. She wore a pair of jogging pants and a baggy green shirt. Her long ponytail swung left and right as we jogged along at medium speed.

"So, what did you select for the check up?" I asked.

"Track and field. High Jump, Long Jump and 5 mile run."

"I can help you with the running and long jump, but for the high jump we better ask Lizzie for help."

"Who's Lizzie?" she asked and I could hear a slight alarm in her voice.

"My sister. She's going to Hundertwasser school and lives with me. You must have seen us on campus before. Blond, cute as a button, my height?"

"Oh, the one who feeds you tacos in the park?" she noted with a chuckle. "I thought I saw a resemblance."

I let it slide that she'd just given away she might have kept a somewhat closer eye on me than might have been expected.

"Yeah; she's doing heptathlon. High jump is too technical for me."

We reached Keezar stadium, I keyed open the side entrance and we walked out onto the field. The morning dew in the grass reflected the early sunlight in a myriad of colors. The scene was perfect for my mood. I was euphoric. The lost final was completely forgotten, inconsequential, and not only because I'd qualified for the final tournament anyway.

"Alright," I said. "I'm doing a one-hour interval training of about 10 miles. You should try doing 5 miles in about forty minutes, then ten minutes' break and then you try keeping up with me for the last ten minutes, okay?"

"Forty minutes? That's a gold time for my age group," she said with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Were you going for bronze?" I looked at her with a deliberately cocky glance.

"I never got more than that," she admitted, her eyes cast downward.

"What's your personal best?" I asked, softening my voice. After all, I wanted to take this seriously, but not alienate her by being a jerk, and her emphasis on 'my age group' had not escaped my attention. She _was_ self-conscious about being older than me.

"Forty-seven thirty-three," she said.

I did a quick mental calculation.

"Okay, that's a little over ten kph. Change of plan. We'll do eleven kilometers in a one hour session. I dictate the speed, you keep up. Even if you feel fresh enough, do not go faster than me, okay?"

She nodded and started stripping off her shirt and pants. My vision blurred slightly. She wore one of those ridiculously tight two-piece track and field suits that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her body was as breathtaking as I remembered it.

"Holy shit!" I stammered in awe, realizing too late I'd said that out loud. She just smiled at me and started stretching to warm up her muscles.

-=/\=-

I looked at my watch – fifty-three minutes. Erika was seriously running out of steam, while for me the five kph drop from my normal pace made it a rather moderate jog.

"Listen, slow to normal marching pace and walk. Don't stop," I instructed her. "When I come round to lap you, you speed up again."

She nodded and dropped back. I continued the jog at a steady pace. That would give her about two and a half minutes to recuperate and leave a three to four minutes home stretch.

When I came round to lap her she sped up, but I could see that she had trouble finding the rhythm. In a spur-of-the-moment decision I grabbed her hand and our fingers intertwined. With me giving the cadence via arms movement, she quickly found the rhythm and we finished the final minutes of the run.

Once we were across the finish line she slung her free arm around my neck and with her head resting against my chest she started to cry. Much of it was sheer exhaustion, but I was well aware that my actions in years past were probably playing a role too.

I gently laid her down on the grass and freed myself from her embrace. She was lying on her back, her face buried in her palms, still sobbing. I bent her legs up and started to massage her calves and femoral musculature. They were rock hard and she'd be walking funny for the rest of the day – that much was obvious.

"You did the five miles in forty-three point six," I told her, still working on her tortured muscles. "And overall, you did seven and a half miles."

She looked at me completely dumbfounded. "That's a four minute improvement!"

I nodded, and continued to knead her leg muscles.

"Your problem is, you can't hold a rhythm. You waste energy by starting too fast then slowing down too much. I think we can shave off at least another three minutes, probably more like five."

She shook her head, still in disbelief over her time.

-=/\=-

Even the weather seemed to agree that this day could not get any better. Who would have expected twenty degrees Centigrade and a perfectly clear blue sky in the middle of November? The happy squeals from a brother-sister pair playing in the sandbox reverberated from the walls of the four blocks that framed the interior courtyard of our home away from home. Even the air smelled sweeter than usual, but that could just as well be because Mrs. Zelenkova was baking her legendary strawberry cake again.

The last three weeks since the qualification tournament had been so great, I was almost afraid that something unforeseen and bad would be happening very soon. My life felt like I'd walked into one of those cheap sappy novels that Lizzie liked to read. You know the kind? There are those sappy pieces, where the hero and heroine live happily ever after from the second chapter onwards. That's how I felt, right then. I was a hero in a sappy dime novel.

The problem is, life usually costs a little more than a dime, and in return for happiness many a rock is thrown into one's path, but at that time I didn't quite give a damn. I was enjoying the good times while they lasted. The next hardship would be coming no later than in two weeks' time at the latest, when the finals tournament was on the schedule.

As far as my training was concerned, I'd done all that I could do in the three months I'd had to prepare. My stamina was in good order, certainly more than enough to go the distance in more than one bout, and my muscles were coming along just fine. I couldn't remember having ever looked that bulky, so I had to pay attention not too bust the weight limit. Searching for superfluous fat on my body was an exercise in futility, but muscle mass is higher than fat. It certainly met with the approval of both Lizzie and my daily training partner Erika; hell, even Mrs. Zelenkova had been paying me compliments on how healthy I looked.

Over the course of three weeks the morning training with Erika had become a comfortable routine, and it felt great how we reconnected more with every day. To be honest, 'reconnecting' was actually a bit of a misleading term, as in truth we'd never been as connected as we were now, not even when we first went to bed together.

Back three years ago she'd been lusting over a well-muscled teen while I was unable to refuse the obvious offer of bedding a hot lady (and had fallen hard for her in the process). But now we were becoming close friends. In fact, I was sort of wondering if this was where we'd been heading – friends, but not lovers anymore. On the other hand she'd recently started to ogle me with 'that look' again. No matter how hard we'd screwed up in '38 (me in particular), the desire was still between us, but I decided to just go with the flow. Sure, I still fancied her like hell, but if that wasn't what she wanted anymore, I wasn't going to push the issue. Either way, I'd be happy with it.

On the sporting front, things were a bit harder. Erika's running was coming along nicely. She had the stamina of an ox. The problem was her rotten timing. When we ran together, with me dictating the cadence, she could easily beat the gold time of 40 minutes and thirty seconds by now, but if left to run alone – what she would have to do in the fitness check – she always came in two to three minutes slower.

It had taken me days to find out why, until I noticed that she was entirely relying visually on her surroundings instead of internalizing the rhythm that would keep her at a steady 12 kilometers per hour. With only little over three weeks remaining, I needed to try an unorthodox method, just like Lizzie had done coaching her in the high jump.

My little sis had handled the technical side of the disciplines herself, and by god she'd come home a few times frustrated. The long jump wasn't so much a problem. Erika was easily capable of a silver distance, making up for the lower score with the running, provided we'd get the pacing sorted out. But the high jump was a disaster as for some irrational reason Lizzie's first 'pupil' had trouble jumping over the bar with her back to it.

In her exasperation my sister had dug out a technique called 'the straddle' that had gone out of style almost 180 years ago, which allowed Erika to jump forward. Strangely enough it didn't cost her much height and a gold score was not entirely unrealistic. I would have given a limb to see the faces of the adjudicators when they watched her hurtle over the bar with a technique that none of them had seen in their lifetime.

And then there was the R&amp;D business. Either Varley had been dishing out a few friendly insults on my behalf or some of the engineers had seen the tournament. Whatever the reason, the atmosphere had undergone an almost tectonic change. No longer ostracized, I could actually draw on other people's experience now, and my V120 twin-nacelle layout had won quite a few proponents. Now the work on finishing those simulations could start in earnest.

=/\=

With a bit of effort I pulled down the handle to turn on the floodlights. The large relay emitted a clunking sound as it closed the electric circuit and the smaller of the lights sprang to life. I didn't need the full illumination, but mid-November meant my usual training start at 0530 was well before dawn.

To improve efficiency of the training, we had split it. I would start at half past five and Erika joined an hour later. With my stamina improved as it was, I could put in an additional one hour run at a slightly reduced pace.

I was just finishing my last lap when I saw that Erika was already doing her stretching exercises to warm up. She was again wearing her ridiculously tight two-piece outfit (she turned up in it every day frankly), and I couldn't get enough of seeing this fit and trim, gorgeous female body displayed in all its magnificence.

Especially now. After nearly a month of intense training her muscles had definitely firmed up some, and I could think of a few younger women who would kill for a body like Erika's. It became harder by the day to withstand the burning temptation to touch that body again in all the right and wrong places, but I was too afraid of damaging the burgeoning connection we'd built over the last weeks. After all, I'd hurt her once, and I was determined to leave the decision to her. At that time I didn't yet know that I was holding the key in my hand.

I stopped my run and shook my legs to cool down. She was smiling at me as she continued her exercises.

"Erika, we'll try something new today," I said, as my breath slowly returned to normal. She looked at me, interest and curiosity reflecting in her dark eyes. "You're completely relyin' on visual clues for your rhythm."

She nodded. "I'm counting the trees as they fly past."

"What if there aren't any trees where you do your test, or what if it isn't even a tartan track? You won't have any reference and you'd have tortured yourself for nothing."

She nodded, clearly thinking through the consequences. "Any ideas?"

"This one," I said, and took out the utensils I'd brought in my backpack.

She looked at the stuff dangling from my hand, first in shock, then dubiously and finally with some bewildered amusement.

"You've brought a _blindfold and handcuffs_?"

"It's a tether they use in disabled sports," I explained, and fastened one of the two leather bracelets around her left wrist. The second would go on my wrist and the two were connected by a leather string. "I'll be your guidance partner, while _you_ concentrate solely on your rhythm. Internalize it. You have to teach yourself to feel it with closed eyes."

"Well, we've tried everything else," she replied dryly as I put the blindfold over her eyes. Once I'd fastened the second bracelet around my own wrist, I took her hand and guided her to the track.

"Okay, we're goin' for a thirty-nine. You've done that before. Start internalizin' the rhythm. Try to find a song that fits and sing it in your mind for forty minutes or whatever works. Okay?"

She nodded and we started to jog. It took about two laps until we were in tune with each other. As soon I was satisfied of that, I gave the sign – a squeeze of her hand – and we picked up the pace that would allow her to beat the forty minute mark.

Thirty minutes into the run I could see how her rhythm had improved. She was holding it well, even when I let the tether go slack. My experiment seemed to be working, although for some reason she was having a harder time than usual. Her face was flushed a deep crimson and her breath even more labored than normal.

"You okay, Erika?" I asked, slightly worried. We were en-route to a blisteringly quick time, but I didn't want her to keel over.

"I'm afraid we haven't thought this through, Trip," she pressed out, interrupted by heavy gasps for air. Her voice was quivering. "It helps with the rhythm, but it's turning me on like hell."

Realization dawned on me. Erika had a thing for strong guys. Having her blindfolded and dependent on my help, I had inadvertently put myself into a dominant position.

"Want me to take it off?" I asked.

"Don't you dare," she puffed. "I've not felt so horny since forever. Think we can do something about that soon?"

The admission, and the prospect it brought with it, had the inevitable effect. I was only glad that we were alone out on the track, as any onlooker would have suddenly seen rather more of Charles Tucker III than was normally visible in the middle of a training run.

Man, it would make keeping up the pace difficult, if not downright uncomfortable, but there was nothing much I could do about it. Except maybe whimper occasionally with the discomfort.

We continued our run, but the mood had changed. I felt reminded of the Wimshorst machine back in middle school, where flashes of electricity would strike between two globes. That was what happened right then – the proverbial sparks were flying between us. The air was heavy with pent-up desire. Ignoring our exhaustion we sped up more and more, driven by sheer desire and longing for each other's touch.

I had just about the necessary presence of mind to stop the watch when the five miles were completed, and then I made a sharp turn towards the underpass through which the players usually walked out of the catacombs. Still blindfolded, Erika just stumbled along.

With a quick motion I released the bracelet from my wrist, leaving it dangling off hers.

She let out a yelp of surprise as I pushed her against the wall, pressing my own heated body to hers. We were jostling against each other in desperate desire, greedily soaking up each other's taste as our mouths devoured each other. Our arms were in danger of ending up in a knot as we possessively grappled the other's flesh.

While she seemed to be content in the darkness of the blindfold, my vision was narrowed exclusively to the quivering body in my arms. Intermittently the blinding first rays of the sun creeping over the top of the stadium roof fought to distract me, but I was no longer in this world, taken away to a different sphere by her intoxicating taste, driven wild by the feral mix of her perfume and the sweat of her exhaustion. The so-long-yearned-for softness of her breasts in my hands after I'd pulled her top over her head took the last control from me. I wanted to possess her.

I clawed my clothes off somehow, desperate to experience all of her with all of me. Our fingers clashed briefly in their eagerness as we pushed her pants down. Her skin was hot satin, slippery with sweat.

I had meant to be gentle, very gentle, and had worried about it all through the frantic last few laps. I had hurt her so very badly three years ago; It was essential to 'come canny', to take my time, to be careful in gluing the shattered shards of her trust in me back together.

But when I pushed myself into her I sensed that she had no use for gentleness, courting or prolonged foreplay. She wished for directness, force, possession, and she was not a patient about it. If she was still broken she would cut me up, slash through me like an angry drunkard with a shattered bottle, but I was willing to take the plunge.

I felt a sweet pain as she raked my back; my hazed mind was filled with the sensation of her long nails scraping over my skin. _Good,_ I thought, _she's fighting_. This was my last thought as my mind was taken away by rage, fury and a primal desire that descended on me like dark clouds on a mountain top, and the thunderstorm took possession of my mind.

When my senses came back, I was lying naked on my back on the cold concrete floor. Erika was on top of me, equally naked, steadied by my hands, which had possessively grabbed the curves of her firm rear. I gently took the blindfold off her with my teeth and she squinted her eyes to get used to the light after having spent the last hour in complete darkness.

Except for the area around her eyes that the blindfold had covered, her face was dirty; the sweat from the running and our desperate and wild love-making had mixed with the dirt we'd kicked up. Her scrunchie hadn't survived the wild tryst and her hair was loose, as tousled as if two cats had staged a fight in it.

She was looking down at me with a mixture of deep satisfaction and affection. She was an Amazon queen coming home from a victorious fight. She was _unbelievably _gorgeous.

Finally we struggled to our feet, still breathing heavily, and surveyed the mess we'd made. Slowly we began picking up the clothes we'd ripped off each other.

"How long till the first people arrive?" she asked me, mischief dancing in her eyes.

I looked at my watch. "Greenkeeper'll be here in about ninety minutes. Why?"

She stepped closer to me and whispered in my ear. "I'm feeling utterly naughty. I want to do a naked warm-down run and then I want to get some grass stains on my butt from when we do it again, smack bang in the middle of the field; wild, but a little less desperate this time."

For some reason that I'll probably never find out about, the thick Scottish accent of my brother's boyfriend popped up in my mind.

"I'll give it to ye, lass," I declared with a perhaps not entirely convincing faux Gaelic twang (Davy's boyfriend made it sound easier as it was to replicate). We turned to trot – with somewhat of an effort – back towards the track. "But ye'll take it tenderly from me this time, _mo_ _nigheann donn_."

"I don't want it tenderly, damn you!" she mock-complained with a chuckle as we started to jog at medium speed – except for the shoes, both now naked as jaybirds.

"I ken that well enough," I replied with a feigned hint of grimness. "But it's what ye'll have, whether ye ask it or not."

When we finally left the stadium, we'd beaten the green-keeper by a mere ten minutes. In fact, we met him in the park on our way back. We must have been grinning like imbeciles, for he gave us a somewhat quizzical look, but we couldn't care less. We were both floating over the ground and we hardly made it a few hundred yards at a time without giving in to the need to kiss each other.

"The first time in my life I stole something," Erika said with a chuckle "And it's the kickoff-point from a football pitch. It's all on my ass now."

"Wouldn't you love to see his face when he tries to work out what happened to his center circle?" We both laughed, holding hands like teenagers, swinging our arms back and forth.

A few minutes later I finally remembered what we had met for in the first place. "You did a thirty-seven fifty, by the way," I said, and Erika grinned from ear to ear and cackled.

"That's a gold time for the eighteen-to-thirty group. Too bad I'm not allowed to run blindfolded. The victory celebration has a certain charm."

I stopped and gathered her in my arms. We kissed and she was looking at me, her eyes filled with a loving glance I'd not seen since that morning when we'd said goodbye three years ago.

"Can you forgive me, darlin'?"

She smiled. "I thought waiting for you naked in the middle of the field was a clear enough hint?"

"I'm not only talkin' about that," I said, shaking my head. "I hurt the woman I love three years ago, and I need…"

I couldn't finish my sentence as she gasped loudly when I dropped the L-word. She stared into my eyes, completely dumbfounded. That she wasn't buying it three years ago was understandable, but I was twenty now. I certainly knew what I was doing.

"T-Trip, I'll be thirty-two in three months' time. You should be with someone your own age."

I silenced her with a kiss that she eagerly returned.

"I'm not interested in anyone nearer my own age, darlin'. I want the woman I'm with right now," I said. "You are drop-dead gorgeous and my life would be quite empty without you. Your age doesn't matter in this. I love you, Erika."

It wasn't hard to see that she was moved, but also a little more cautious than I was. Not exactly surprising considering our history.

"Trip, I would lie if I said I don't care deeply about you. You make me forget my age, I think making me regress to a silly teenager for a while is a pretty good hint."

We both smiled at the memory.

"Using the L-word is a very big step. It doesn't mean we have to abandon what we just rediscovered, but give yourself the time to think this through, because a woman of any age has big expectations when that word is uttered. And don't blame the last three years all on yourself. I didn't exactly act my age either back then and I was too prideful to admit my own faults. That's even more reason to _really_ think this through this time."

I pulled her in for what would become the longest kiss of my young life.

=/\=

I had a sense of déjà-vu. The temperature was perhaps four or five degrees lower and it wasn't three in the morning, but seven. Nevertheless, everything else was almost exactly as it had been almost three months ago when I'd been at Harrison's creek the last time.

This late in the year it was still dark, with the same surreal wave pattern dancing across the surface at the outlet of the creek. Too bad the water was a little too cold for extended swims, but it meant that except for the hardcore bathers, even during the day, the place was almost deserted, and it certainly was at this time in the morning on a Sunday.

It was my favorite place in which to sort out my thoughts, and the need to visit it had been why I'd come home for the weekend. Sure, seeing Mom and Dad was another reason, but mostly I wanted to spend time here, wallowing in self-pity about how much I missed Erika. It had only been a few days since I'd had that feeling of living in a too-good-to-be-true dime novel, and sure as hell life had thrown me curveball and I'd missed it.

Despite knowing what time it was, I looked at my wrist-watch. Yep, exactly a week ago I'd been circling the track with a blindfolded Erika, which later erupted in a wild bout of sex. Reed with his clipped British accent would probably call it 'a desperate shag in the skip'.

Then we'd gone silly, running five laps stark-naked before we'd made long and luxuriously slow and tender love in the center circle of the field. Little had I known at the time that twenty-four hours later she'd be sitting in a shuttle on her way to a 2-week survival training in the Australian outback. Life sucked at times.

At least we'd made the best of the few hours left, spending the Sunday on a day-long date. She'd be barely back in time to see me at the finals tournament, so we couldn't even ravage each other as soon as she was back; and god knows what condition I'd be in after fighting some of the best boxers in all of Starfleet, so it stood to reason we might have to wait a little longer even then.

But that's where Erika's words of caution kept getting back to me. Was it really love or was I just overwhelmed by the brilliant sex with a gorgeous woman who knew every trick in the book and was very willing to teach them to me? Granted, considering that I had had sex exactly three times in my twenty years of existence – and all encounters had involved her – the topic was bound to keep me occupied, but then the last three months hadn't be dominated by the thought of getting her into bed, I had wanted all of Erika back, most importantly her heart.

Did that sound too serious for a twenty-year old guy? Our parents had married at that age and seeing that they were still happily married, it didn't seem to have been a rash decision. I was conflicted, but then that was what I had taken on the flight across the continent for. Nowhere in the world could I untangle my thought better than here. The babbling of the water as it rushed down the creek – that was the metronome that kept my brain working at untangling this mess.

A beep interrupted me. I searched through my discarded clothes until I found my PADD. It was an incoming message. I did a quick mental calculation. It should be 1900 or 2000 in Australia by now, so it could be from Erika. Was that the first sign of life in a week?

I opened the message and my eyes went wide. It was indeed a message from Erika – basically a simple two-liner followed by two pictures. Oh. My. God.

Erika was grimy, a whole day's worth of dirt, mixed with sweat had painted dirty streaks all over her face and arms and much of the grime had caught in her hair as well. There she was again, that bare-breasted Amazon queen coming home victoriously after doing battle with dragons - or whatever Amazon queens battled with.

She was leaning against a rock, obviously exhausted from the day's long march. Her dirty Starfleet issue tank-top lay next to her on the ground, leaving her topless, and she was sending a smoldering look into the camera. It was an unbelievable sight and since I was naked, there was a very obvious manifestation of my arousal almost instantly. I quickly rolled onto my stomach, burying the treacherous organ under my body, just in case Lizzie showed up with breakfast again. It was damned uncomfortable, but propriety has its demands.

The second image was one of her completely naked, wading out of a billabong after having washed off the grime. She was stretching luxuriously. Her wet long hair hung over her shoulders, partially hiding her boobs – _mean, mean woman_.

The message that accompanied the pictures was short and to the point.

_Sally (she took the pictures) says my man must be really special to deserve a surprise like this. She's right. Miss you badly, Erika. _

I smiled as I read the message, but my eyes were quickly drawn back to the pictures.

It wasn't going to make lying face-down any less uncomfortable, but hell, there were times when a man prefers to suffer.

=/\=

To be honest, I pitied the three guys who'd been drawn in the same group as me. Two weeks' worth of pent-up frustration had rained down on their faces and torsos, and I was the only group winner to have decked all three opponents - two in the first round and one in the second. I was on fire.

Erika had finally arrived during my third fight, just in time to see my opponent falter. She was still in the white desert uniform, making her look incredibly sexy. (Okay, truth be told I'd probably have classified her as utterly sexy in a burlap sack at that point.) In the next break we exchanged a longing look, and it took my whole control not to show an embarrassing visible reaction when images came to my mind about what we'd do should I _not_ end the tournament on a biobed.

Unsurprisingly Reed had won his group as well, which meant we'd avoid each other in the quarters, but - provided we both won - we'd meet in the semi-final.

My quarter-final opponent was as tough as old boots. For the first time I had to go to the third round and the guy was still on his feet. He was a lieutenant from Nigeria, a good three inches taller than me, and all muscles – right on the ragged edge of the upper weight limit. I'd gotten a good few heavy hits in and he'd gone down once early in the second round, but he was still up and about. I had to risk everything. So late in the tournament I had to be economical on how long to let the fights draw out.

I ducked in, risking an upper cut to my mug, and fired a left-right-left hook combination at his flanks. He stumbled back into the ropes and dropped his defense. I lunged forward and started pelting his head with jabs and upper cuts.

The ref immediately broke the fight and, still a burned kid from my snafu at the qualification tournament, I made sure to step back visibly. At the five count the ell-tee had his fists back up, but I could see he was rattled. His defense was more of a token gesture, and I went right for his mug again with a well-timed straight punch. It went straight in, and he hung in the ropes again.

The ref stepped in between us and waved his hands to call the fight. The guy'd been counted for the third time, which meant I had won by TKO a minute into Round Three. Erika was ecstatic.

When I was back in the warm-up area, it was Reed instead of the physio who helped me get the gloves off. We exchanged 'bro-fists' and he tilted his head toward the exit.

"That gorgeous brown-haired bird in the first row; is that your lady?"

I nodded.

"Have a thing for experienced women, hmm? I must admit, for a redneck you have exquisite taste."

I chuckled at his attempts to bait me.

"Looks like it's the two of us in the semi," I said. "This time both my eyes are in perfect order, so don't plan for the final just yet."

"In perfect order, _till now,_" the Brit said, and handed me my gloves.

His mouth wore a half-smile, but his gray eyes were cold. He'd seen me battered. He knew my weak spots.

I'd better not underestimate his determination.

=/\=

_When I look into your eyes,  
I can see a love restrained,  
But darlin' when I hold you,  
Don't you know I feel the same._

_'Cause nothin' lasts forever,  
And we both know hearts can change.  
And it's hard to hold a candle,  
In the cold November rain_

This being the eleventh time that my entry music had been played in both tournaments combined, I heard quite a lot of people, including Erika, sing along. The atmosphere was still giving me goose bumps, especially now as the crowd was really rowdy. It was my third fight against Reed, and the first two ones had not exactly been of the boring variety.

The results so far had been a bit of an upset. None of last year's finalists had survived the quarters. Reed and I were about to re-enact the October final here in 'Frisco, while the second semi-final was to be contested by the Russian winner of the Bilbao qualifier and the winner of Singapore, a wiry, lightning-quick guy from Malaysia.

Unsurprisingly, Reed's entry music had been a classical piece - 'Mars' from Holst's 'Planets Suite'. It was a big piece of music for such a small guy, and some people jeered at the little Brit with such big ideas about himself, but there was a real and unmistakable threat in his presence as he waited in his corner, rolling his shoulders to keep them loose and tapping his gloved fists together gently, as though in anticipation of landing them on me.

I stepped into the ring, acknowledging the thundering applause by raising my right hand. I definitely had the crowd on my side, but that wouldn't count for much more than gaining strength and motivation from it. When I looked over to Erika I saw she had company – Mrs. Zelenkova. The old lady had her hands balled into fists, pressing her thumbs to the top of them, which I knew was the European equivalent to the crossed fingers of Erika in the adjacent seat. I sent them both a grateful smile. Who knew if my face would still be in a condition to do so after the fight?

The first round went as I expected – dreary, dominated by tactics and defense. Reed had gotten in a right-hand that left my lower lip swollen and I'd smuggled in a hook to his temple and a not-too-shabby uppercut to his chin. I could easily see he'd used the time since October well. He could take a much harder beating, and his punches were noticeably stronger. But he'd traded some of his agility for it.

As the bell sounded for the second round, I'd been given a clear line of approach by the coach. Theoretically I should have scored the first round by a point or two, but I couldn't afford to rely on that. The plan was to 'tenderize the meat', meaning I was to shower Reed with hits; not necessarily hard enough to floor him, but to exhaust and literally knock the air out of him to soften him up for the kill in the third round.

Alas, things went badly from the off. I was over-eager, and walked straight into a counter-punch to my already battered lip. Before I knew it, I was on my butt. I jumped up, ready at the five-count. Unless I could knock him to the floor as well, he'd take the round by at least two points, which would put him definitely ahead.

And that was exactly what happened. I managed to landed a few crosses and hooks, but as I'd been on the deck the round went to Reed. My options for the rest of the fight had narrowed down to one: I had to knock him over in the third round.

"If you have any idea, you better try it soon," the coach said in my ear, while the physio fanned air into my face with a towel. "He's definitely got the second round and the first one was too close to call."

I nodded. Speaking was too difficult with my monstrous lip. The bell rang and I went out – with a plan.

We'd traded a few minor blows for about a minute when I saw an opening at four o'clock. Reed was obviously expecting a hook, but I twisted my arm into a Bolo punch, a rarely used, tricky punch that I'd practiced with the coach in secret. My fist connected with his jaw, with my entire weight behind it, and taken completely by surprise the Brit fell backwards like a plank. Still lying on his back, for a few seconds he just blinked at the ceiling like he wasn't sure where he was; he shook his senses back into order quickly, but it took him until the eight count to get back on his feet. From then on it was tit for tat as we traded blows, both abandoning our defenses for most of the time. When the final bell sounded we had properly beaten the stuffing out of each other, both staggering towards our corners, knackered, but I had equalized the lost second round. It would now all depend on how the judges had seen the first round.

The ref held each of us by the wrist as the announcer heralded the result.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the result. Judge one: 121 to 119, Judge two: 120 to 120, Judge three: 121 to 119. Winner by majority decision, Cadet Charles Anthony "Trip" Tucker III!"

The crowd went nuts. I saw Erika practically tackling Mrs. Zelenkova. I could just hope she wouldn't snap the poor old lady in half with a hug that hard. Reed and I exchanged the customary man-hug and left the ring; I couldn't catch his eye, but I didn't have time to think about that right now. Now I was up against that lightning quick Malaysian for the big prize.


	6. After The Gathering Comes The Scattering

Even if I lost the coming final, I'd already won. I was lying naked on my stomach on a massage bench, with Erika having sent the physio away, insisting that I needed some female finesse, not a hairy 200 pound guy kneading my muscles. I certainly wasn't complaining, although I didn't quite know yet how to get rid of that monstrous erection hidden below my bulk. Her touch was energizing, revitalizing but also electrifying and as arousing as hell. I gave in to the sensation and rolled over. Everything else was inconsequential right then.

=/\=

When I'd dressed again and came back to the warm-up area from behind the curtain, holding hands with my gorgeous masseuse, the coach doubled over laughing. I suppose he'd worked out why I was looking quite relaxed but slightly cross-eyed, while Erika was licking her lips. She blew me another kiss and walked back out to the main hall. The coach was still cackling and shook his head, though the physio was inclined to frown. Anything that dissipated my testosterone and energy levels was not good preparation for the workout this final was likely to be.

But there was no time to waste. The physio bandaged my hands and a few minutes later the gloves were on. After that 'motivation', there was no way I'd disappoint Erika by losing the final again.

My anthem played again and I felt a lot lighter on my feet, skipping as I walked out. "Give 'im hell, kiddo!" I heard Varley holler from somewhere in the bleachers, and I raised my right hand, keeping my face well hidden below the hood of my robe. The crowd answered the gesture with a cheer.

As I stepped into the ring I could see that my opponent wasn't too sure of himself. You'd think making it to the last match of the finals tournament would bolster the guy's confidence, but he knew he was at a disadvantage. He was wiry and lightning quick – hell, he made Reed look like Slowpoke Rodriguez, but he was just above minimum weight and had barely any flesh on the ribs to withstand a good pounding.

I sent him a condescending glance, letting my pecs dance the Kozachok, and it didn't fail to impact on him. It was a bit of a dirty tactic, but that wasn't going to stop me. I hadn't come this far to lose, and intimidating the opponent wasn't illegal. He was gulping nervously. I kept up the bad boy look as we exchanged fist bumps and the fight was opened.

I thumped in a hard jab immediately. He was slightly stunned but he skipped out of my reach with cat-like grace. Trying to hit that guy would be harder than nailing pulp to a wall. He was ridiculously agile. It was obvious what his plan was – to wear me out trying to land my fists on him and then take advantage when my stamina was exhausted.

I felt a bit like a bear trying to get rid of a pesky fly - more than half of my punches missed. Towards the end of the first round I finally whacked in a cross that connected; he stumbled, butwas saved by the bell. Nonetheless, that round went more clearly in my favor than the first one against Reed had done.

The second one was tough to call. The guy was still lightning-quick and didn't show any signs of tiring, unlike me. I was starting to feel the effects of the last two fights. Reed, especially, had taken a lot of energy out of me. I was always half a step behind this guy, so with about ninety seconds to go in the second round I decided to play dirty.

Not trusting mehaving the power for a third round, I deliberately opened my defenses a bit and he put in a cross to my temple. It wasn't too hard a hit, but I stumbled beautifully, and the guy descended upon me to use the momentary 'disorientation' the blow had caused. Except that my stumble had been a trick – he ran straight into a last-ditch effort of a massive hook right to the bridge of his nose. His eyes rolled shut as he was spun away by the force of it and face-planted the deck – out cold. The ref didn't even bother counting, but called in the medics instead.

It was over. I'd won. The crowd went haywire, but my look was glued to my gorgeous Amazon queen as she ran up to the ring.

=/\=

Now, that was a champion's way to wake up. Right next to me in the double bed was a stark naked nurse, cooling my still swollen lip with an ice pack. As I've probably mentioned before, she was unbelievably gorgeous, something that couldn't quite be said for me.I'd taken quite a few hits the previous evening; the redecoration of my face together with the general exhaustion had limited my versatility in what mattered last night, but Erika had put her greater experience to good use, and a great time had been had with those body parts of mine that were undamaged and functioning properly.

But not all was roses, as the last day was going to have consequences.

"Darlin' I'm afraid we're in to face the music," I said, gently taking her hand with the ice pack off my face. "I saw Jeffries' expression after the fight. He wasn't exactly thrilled by the way you tackled me in the ring. We've been a bit obvious."

Her face fell slightly. She knew that our conduct wouldn't go unmentioned, even more so since that uptight Catholiban Admiral Black had been there too. That guy made the pope look like a liberal democrat.

"Don't worry," I said, cupping her cheek. "We're in this together and even if you don't like me using the L-word just yet, I'm not going to let them take you away from me."

"I should have controlled myself," she grumbled in self-reproach and sat up. "I've ruined your career before it began. Don't worry, I'll take the blame on me."

I sat up, too. Something about her tone sounded utterly wrong.

"Trip, I think you should go now."

There hadn't been a single punch in either of both tournaments that'd hit me that unexpected and that hard. It was certainly not the way I had envisioned the start of the Sunday after my biggest win. Well, second biggest. Winning Erika's heart back two weeks ago was the biggest one, but the age old adage 'After the gathering comes the scattering' appeared to have come true on that one by the look of it.

"Erika..."

My protest was silenced, though, when she fixed me with a look that was utterly unreadable. Was it anger, rage, hopelessness? Hell, it could have been every single one of those.

"This was a big mistake. Please go, Trip. Don't make it harder than it already is."

I pondered standing up for what we had, but there was a fine line between standing my ground and destroying what we'd rebuilt over the last weeks. The image of a fragile building came to my mind. Erika was obviously determined to abandon it. It would remain standing. If I fought over it, it might collapse.

No pounding yesterday could have left me this numb. On autopilot I dressed and looked at her one last time. She had the bed sheet draped around her body to conceal her nakedness and looked away from me. Utterly numb, and fighting the urge to scream in anger and sadness, I stumbled out of her apartment. I didn't even bother to take the trophy I'd won. It was utterly meaningless now.

-=/\=-

Sadness and shock had given in to anger by the time I'd reached our apartment block. The five or six mile walk from Erika's place to mine had done nothing to calm me down. Ten-dime novel my ass – Life had bent me over the nearest bit of furniture and given me a darn good anal seeing-to. Why had I gone to all the lengths of winning her back if she wasn't even contemplating the idea of fighting for what we had? Hell, falling in love wasn't a damn crime, was it?

I nearly bumped into Mrs. Zelenkova when I stormed through the main entrance. Side-stepping her I rushed up the stairs in fury, taking two steps at a time. I heard her mutter something like _"mladee kosmonavt jay sranen", _but I was too occupied with myself to give it much thought.

I keyed the door open, slamming it shut when I'd entered, and made a bee-line for the fridge. Grabbing three bottles by the necks I stalked through the living room toward the small workroom where I'd usually do my evening training.

Lizzie was sitting on the sofa studying something or other for school. I pointed my finger angrily at her.

"Not. A. Single. Word," I hissed. "And don't you dare come botherin' me!"

I could see her look of utter shock, and deep down within me I felt bad for doing that, but I was too hurt myself to care. I stormed off, slamming the door shut behind me.

-=/\=-

I had no idea how long I'd been in there, leaning against the wall and staring emptily into the distance. I was on the third beer. Nothing to shake me really, but the bottle was something to hold on to as the rest of my world seemed to have come crashing down around me.

I heard the door open slowly.

"I said I don't wanna be disturbed," I growled and my nostrils were flaring in annoyance.

"You only told sister," a familiar voice said quirkily, and looking to my left I saw Mrs. Zelenkova shuffle in, supporting herself on a wooden cane.

Well, I'd won the tournament using some legal, if questionable tactics. Now it appeared that I was the one on the receiving end of a slightly dirty trick. The old lady knew all too well that, no matter how angry I was, I couldn't show her any more disrespect than I'd already done by wordlessly stalking past her in the entrance. Respect for the elderly was one of the things our parents had etched into our brains from early childhood.

"Mrs. Zelenkova," I said, slightly frustrated. "Seriously, what business of yours is my messed-up life?"

She didn't answer; instead she plucked the bottle from my hand and waddled off, putting it on the desk outside my reach.

"First rule, young Kosmonaut: no drink. Drink not heal pain, only give more pain next morning."

Having said her Yoda bit, she sat down on a chair, resting her hands on the cane and looked at me. Neither of us said anything for a minute or two until she came straight to be point.

"Something went wrong with beautiful woman," she noted matter-of-factly. "Why?"

I had no idea how she was doing it, but she had an authority about herself that I couldn't escape, and I duly relayed the events of this morning, omitting any details about the night of course. I didn't think there was any need to clue in a woman who'd been around for eighty years. She'd most likely worked out herself that we hadn't been playing scrabble – not after how Erika had been all over me after the win.

"Remember what I said, young Kosmonaut? Hard work only begins. Young Erika afraid you run away again when fighting necessary."

"Say what?" I asked in disbelief. "Have you forgotten what I did last night? That looked a hell of a lot like fightin' to me."

"That just game," she said dismissively. "Game has rules and is predictable. You do not know what rules are for fight with Starfleet to keep Erika. She rather hurt now than see you lose."

"By kicking me out she didn't even give me a _chance_ to fight," I pleaded, waving my arms about to make my point.

"Who said women always right?" she said. "But you no fight. You sit here drink beer. And young Erika probably drink too. Both lose."

"I don't think so," I said with a resigned tone. "She's above that. Hell knows what her reasons are, but she seems to know what she wants."

Mrs. Zelenkova chuckled. "I not stupid also, young Kosmonaut, but when first big fight with husband, I drinked, badly."

I couldn't help but smile wistfully at her. Somehow the old lady always knew what I needed to hear. Guess that's the wisdom that comes with being old enough to know the first Vulcan ambassador to Earth.

I was just getting up to thank her for the pep talk when Lizzie burst into the room, her eyes wide in worry and confusion.

"Trip, there's an incoming call, some guy called Reed. He says it's urgent."

I ran after her, but stopped short of the terminal. "Lizzie, take care of Mrs. Zelenkova, okay? Make her a coffee or something."

She nodded and I sat down at the terminal, keying the communication in.

"Bloody Norah, it's been a tough job finding you," the Brit said without preamble. He seemed to be standing in front of a rather familiar establishment. "I don't know what happened between the two of you, but that pretty bird of yours is here in the 602 club and she's as pissed as a newt. I can hold the fort for a while, but she's about to be taken advantage of by some guys she wouldn't even look at if she was sober. So unless you've ditched her, go spit in your socks mate."

"I owe you, pal. Be right there," I said and ran out. Before the door slammed shut behind me I heard Mrs. Zelenkova say something to Lizzie that sounded like "Good, he finally fight".

-=/\=-

I burst into the 602 club, where I saw Reed 'discussing the situation' with some – hell – forty-something-year-old slimy fat guy, who had his hands all over Erika. She was sitting in his lap, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to see that she was completely and utterly out of it. I would have been surprised if she even remembered her address at that point let alone that she was aware of what she was doing.

I spun Erika around; her head lolled on her neck, and she could barely look straight – she probably saw two or three of me. "Alright, Erika, time to go home."

She glared at me. "Don'cha have study or trainin' or sumthin'? I don' wanna go home."

I could have used a linguist right then as her drink-slurred dismissal was followed by a few Spanish words that didn't quite sound like 'I'm happy to see you'.

The slime-bag groping her looked exactly like you'd imagine a sex-offender would. Oily hair, probably hadn't seen the business end of a shower in a week. He reeked so badly of sweat it was enough to leave two seats either side of him empty. His grin was dirtier than Erika'd been in that picture she'd sent.

"Hey, what the fuck?" he growled at me, when I didn't retreat as ordered. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm her boyfriend," I declared loud enough for the whole bar to hear it. "And if you'd prefer that your hands stay attached to your body, you'd better take 'em off her."

"She didn't seem to be concerned about no boyfriend a minute ago," the slime-bag taunted me.

"That's because she's wasted out of her skull, you asshole," I replied, holding my temper, and trying not to give in to his provocation. The fact that I could take him down with one solid punch squarely in the middle of his fat belly helped. Ignoring his look of growing anger and confusion, I took her hand. "C'mon Erika, up and at 'em"

"I don' wanna," she prattled, barely intelligibly, and tried to pull away.

"You heard the 'd rather stay with me," fatso replied with a leer at the drunk woman in his lap. Apparently dismissing me from his mind as though I'd been transported into outer space, he caressed her breast,trying to capture her mouth with his own. "C'mon baby, let's have some fun."

With my right hand I pulled her out of his lap, steadying her by putting my arm around her waist as she tottered. Even with the support she was barely able to keep upright. I don't know if it was a short lucid moment or if it had finally gotten through to her who I was, but she slung her arm around my neck, else she'd probably have collapsed.

With the free left hand I grabbed Jabba the Hut's wrist and twisted it until he had tears in his eyes. Then I bent down nearly level with him and pushed my face almost up against his nose. He goggled at me, evidently coming to the conclusion that he'd sorely underestimated the threat level I posed.

"Take a good look at my face, asshole," I snarled. "It took six guys to paint that picture, and every one of them could have punched you into the middle of next month. So one more word from you and you'll look a hell of a lot worse than I do."

I was about to go, when Ruby the barkeep stopped me. We knew each other a little from my visits, and her face betrayed her tension."Listen," she said. "She came here quite pissed already and the asshole's been filling her up for the last three hours. I'm glad you've stepped in, but do me a favor, leave now."

"You can bet on that," I spat at her. "You folks all just stood by and watched. Hope you're proud of yourselves."

I didn't need to ask Reed for help. He grabbed Erika's other arm and put it around his shoulder, and between us we dragged her out of there. She couldn't walk anymore anyway.

-=/\=-

I had hoped we'd make it to our apartment but just as Reed and I stepped out of the elevator Erika started to retch. She turned towards me, presumably to say something, but it was too late: her stomach's contents poured over the front of my shirt. I hadn't had the Brit marked down as particularly squeamish, but he looked quite sick when she puked all over me. But then I remembered his nervous stomach and I hoped he wouldn't follow suit.

I indicated him to push the door bell. Lizzie started to gag when she saw us after opening the door.

"Just get me a towel, will you?" I ducked out from under Erika's arm and put it overReed's – he didn't look any too thrilled to be left the potential sole target of any further eruptions, but with a resigned expression he put his hands on Erika's waist and stood patiently supporting her as I began stripping off my soiled clothes in the corridor. I didn't dare take her into the flat 'til I was sure she was done vomiting. The flooring of the corridor was waterproof and would wipe clean easily enough. Cleaning alcoholic spew off the carpet of the flat would be a different ball game altogether.

After a while Lizzie was back with a towel. Her face was absolutely devoid of color. I wiped the bile of my chest and threw it on top of my soiled clothes. Only wearing a pair of briefs, I finally took back my half of the supporting duties – by now Erika's head had drooped against Reed's chest and she was mumbling incoherently about it being hairy.

Between the two of us we got her into my bedroom, where we placed her in the recovery position on the bed and placed a bucket with a bit of water next to it. It seemed unlikely there could be anything left in her stomach now, but if there was the bucket was ready to catch it.

"Sorry, mate, but I think I need to get out of here," he said with an apologetic tone and a fairly pale face. The stench of alcoholic puke seemed to hang around him, and I'd already figured he had a bit of a ticklish stomach.

"It's okay, I owe you big time, pal," I said shaking his hand. "Beer, Tuesday evening?"

He just gave me thumbs up and then hurried out of our apartment. At a guess, the thought of anything to do with eating or drinking wasn't too welcome right now.

"I'll stay at Monika's in the dorm," Lizzie said. "It's just around the corner. I think the two of you need some time alone."

I smiled at her, sadly. "Thanks, hon. Don't bother with the corridor, I'll clean that up. Can you look after Erika until I'm done?"

I went slowly to fetch a mop, a bucket, and a bottle of disinfectant.

How could a day that had started so well have ended up so damned awful?

-=/\=-

It wasn't exactly surprising that Erika's morning started with a groan, then a retch, and then splattering sounds as whatever had accumulated in her stomach in the past couple of hourswas deposited into the bucket. All through the night she'd hurled out everything she'd swallowed since 2115, so hell knew what it was she still regurgitated. I rushed to her side and put a cold rag against her forehead.

Once she seemed to be finished, I wiped her mouth clean and carried off the bucket to clean it and renew the water, just in case she had _anything _stillleft inside her.

When I went back she looked at me like a deer in headlights. The aching knot of muscle between her brows was the clearest indication what size headache she had, but I wasn't letting that stop me. I had no idea what was going on inside that aching head, but what I did know was that if she really liked guys who knew what they wanted, she was about to witness one.

Nothing screamed 'I fucked up' louder than a strong woman like Erika ending up like she did last night, and even though I had to attribute some of the blame for that to my actions three years ago, I wasn't prepared for a perpetual guilt trip. It was time that Erika took some of her own medicine. She couldn't just always offload shit on me.

"You know who you are and where?" I asked, deliberately dispassionate as I put the cleaned bucket next to the bed again.

She looked at me in confusion, with a hint of nervousness, but instead of answering, she had a question of her own.

"Trip, why am I naked?"

I didn't quite care for the implication. After all it hadn't been _me_ being groped and slobbered over last night in a drunken stupor by a fat weirdo in a bar.

"You puked all over your clothes and mine, so I had to get them off. Excuse me for not having had the patience to wrestle your passed-out carcass again to get some fresh ones _on_ you afterwards."

"I feel like someone has stuffed a dead possum in my mouth," she joked lamely, but I wasn't in the mood.

"That's the breath of the asshole you were all over last night. You'll just _love_ him when you meet up with him again. Size five. That's the number of acres of material required to make a shirt for him."

"Trip?"

Her question was meek, her confusion obvious, but it lit the fuse and I lost it. "Fuck it, darlin'. You didn't even give me the _chance_ to fight for you! You just brushed me off, kicked me out and then you got yourself shitfaced and threw yourself all over some fucking pervert in a drunken stupor."

"YOU WALKED OUT ON ME, AGAIN!" she shrieked. Plainly, however bad the headache was, it wasn't going to stop her spitting out her resentment at full blast.


	7. Amantes Amentes

Too bad for Erika that the headache hadn't stopped her from screaming, because she ended up flat on her back moaning ans quivering with pain. I walked out to come back with a towel and an ice pack, and deposited both on her forehead.

She managed to squeeze out a "Thanks" before the room went silent. I don't know how long that went on (_I _sure wasn't going to be the one to break it), but after a while she peeked at me from under the ice pack.

"Better?" I asked, and she nodded weakly. I could see her confusion when I walked out of the room again, but I was soon back with dad's special hangover recipe – a honey sandwich, a glass of water with a little baking soda in it, and a large mug of mineral water to wash both of them down.

-=/\=-

Erika had no idea how bloody lucky she'd been. There'd been a big staff meeting early in the morning, which was why none of the Starfleet Bigwigs had been in the 602 club last night – and that wasn't even counting the fact that with her in no condition to consent to anything, the fat guy could have ended up raping her. For the moment, however, she was safe and sleeping soundly.

The baking soda, while not exactly a pleasant-tasting drink, had taken care of her heartburn, and no matter what the urban legends said, the best way to get rid of an alcohol induced head ache is to sleep it off, especially when one isn't exactly a heavy drinker to begin with. Soon after she'd forced the sandwich down and had rehydrated somewhat with the water, she'd been out cold again, finally getting some sleep that deserved the name restful. In fact, she'd been sleeping for ten hours straight as it was evening already.

Even more luck came in with the fact that we were both off duty. I had three days off because of the tournament, while she had Monday and Tuesday off for the weekend she'd worked through in Australia. Had she shown up for duty in her condition, she'd have given Black all the ammunition he needed to bust our sorry asses for fraternization.

The inevitable message had come from our disciplinary superior Commodore Jeffries. Well, he was _her_ direct superior, for me there was Captain O'Riordan in between, but apparently as the one who'd witnessed Erika's demonstration of more-than-friendly concern after the tournament, he was dealing with both of us.

I didn't know how Erika would react to my taking the initiative on the matter, but if I'd learned anything over the last two days, it didn't seem like she was going about things very rationally, so she'd have to follow _my_ lead for a change. I'd called Jeffries and asked if Erika and I could be heard together on Wednesday, and he granted the request on the condition that we prepare a report on how this relationship had started.

My hope was riding on the fact that technically our relationship had started before I was anywhere near Starfleet, so it would take them a pretty cynical approach to bust our asses for the fact that our feelings for each other had been rekindled while we were training together. Unless Erika flunked catastrophically during her fitness check the improvements over her last year's one should give us the necessary proof that our joint training was more than a lame excuse.

I shook my head in frustration. All this shit, just because two people loved each other. No wonder she'd gone nuts over it during the last two days.

I was sitting on my desk with a cup of coffee, reading over my report again, when Erika staggered out of the bedroom. She was looking a bit better, but certainly not by a lot. She was still naked, and it was a bit of an achievement on her part to look so miserable she even made _that_ sight unattractive.

"You'll find shower gel and a toothbrush in the small cupboard under the bathroom mirror. You can use my bathrobe – the blue one - when you're done."

She just nodded weakly and trundled off into the bathroom.

-=/\=-

I always liked the atmosphere of a candle-lit room. The flickering of the flame and the bizarrely moving pattern it painted out of shadows was the second best thing to watching the sun rise over Harrison's creek. It had the advantage, though, that I didn't need to fly back to Florida for it.

In fact, the setting was almost perfect. I was sitting on the couch, drinking a beer, and Erika's head rested in my lap. She was wearing nothing but my bathrobe so if it had taken my fancy I'd have had easy access to all the parts of her body that fascinated me – which was, well, everything really. Except, of course, there were a few things hanging in the air that needed to be gotten out of the way first.

"So, darlin', mind telling me what's wrong with you?" I said softly, but with enough determination in my voice to make her understand that I was actually expecting an answer. She looked straight up at me and I could easily see that she was weighing up her reply.

"Trip, three years ago you ran screaming because you thought you _might_ have knocked me up. This time our careers are at stake. How am I supposed to believe you won't ditch me again?"

She was taking the easy route again, blaming it all on me, but this wasn't the Yellow Brick Road where she could happily skip along and hope for the Good Witch of the North to sort out her problems. Handing her forgiveness on a plate wasn't the way to smooth any of this out.

"And how exactly am I supposed to prove to you that I actually learned something from my mistakes if you don't even give me a chance to? You just assumed I've learned absolutely nothing and you wanted to get rid of the problem the easy way."

"Kicking you out wasn't easy," she insisted, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Nope, that was just utterly stupid," I agreed firmly, which got me a look of stunned disbelief. "And after you'd kicked me out, you go on a friggin' bender, almost get yourself raped, vomit all over the place and the next morning you go medieval on my ass for walking out after you've repeated _twice_ that you want me gone! Answer me one thing, Lieutenant Erika Hernandez, would you want to serve under a captain with _that _sort of rationale?"

I knew that even back then she had her sights fixed firmly on the Big Chair in a starship. The worst thing I could accuse her of was conduct that even hinted she wasn't worthy of that position. I'd hit her where it hurt, and this time even the oh-so-collected Ms. Hernandez couldn't hold back the tears.

"Dammit, Trip! When you walked out of my place yesterday it was like half of me was leaving with you!"

"Sounds familiar," I replied. "Because half of _me_ stayed behind. Now, I'm not the biggest romantic in the universe, but that sounds to me like two people who love each other bein' damn stupid."

She sat up. "How can you say you love me, Trip? You haven't had any other girl in your life. How can you know that a girl your age isn't better suited to you?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed her hand and made her stand up. I closed her bathrobe properly and led her to the window. One good push opened it wide to let in the cool night air, and my finger pointed through it at Alnilam, the middle star of Orion's belt.

"Three years ago you told me that's your favorite star and your dream is to see it up close one day. Look around; there are thousands of others. How come you want to see _that_ one, when you can't know if there aren't more spectacular ones? How many stars have _you _seen up close?"

She just stared at me, her bottom lip quivering as she tried not to cry again. It looked like she was finally starting to realize that I wasn't using the L-word lightly.

"Erika, how often do I need to tell you that you are exactly the woman I want?" I asked softly.

Her stunned look gave way to a little half-smile. "I could get used to hearing it."

I made a face as if I was in deep thought. After a while, I tugged at the belt of the bathrobe and pushed it off her shoulders. "I think I better prove it. You've not been too good at takin' my word for it, lately."

I took her by the hand and we walked towards the bedroom.

-=/\=-

I turned out to be a bit of a lengthy demonstration. In fact, we ended up spending the entire Tuesday in bed. After the breakfast we cleaned up and relocated to Erika's place so Lizzie could come back. The night had been spent cuddling, and only cuddling, but once at Erika's the day went by as an endless series of making slow luxurious love - whenever I'd recovered enough to do so, of course. Not even after the tournament had I been as worn out as that evening when sleep finally punched my lights out.

And it was just as well, because after getting up and having breakfast the next day, we were on our way to face the music. I was technically still off-duty, but it was something we needed to face together. After all it had taken two people to flout the rules the way we'd done.

If it was down to me I'd have liked to hold her hand for support, but it's not really the best way to argue your case successfully with Starfleet by starting off with a provocative gesture. When we walked into Starfleet Headquarters, the place looked even busier than normal, but that wasn't too surprising. It was the first week of December, which meant that most administrative offices would soon shut down and start wrapping up the year's numbers.

We carefully dodged a young ensign who had obviously only a very rudimentary understanding of the concept of 'looking where you're going'. Even though we couldn't lend each other support by keeping contact in a more obtrusive fashion, we walked close enough so that the backs of our hands would occasionally brush together, which was the next best thing.

Of course, we got the odd knowing grin. A lot of the people working here had seen the last tournament, so word had gotten around that the highly-coveted-by-many-a-man Lieutenant Erika Hernandez had chosen a final year cadet almost twelve years her junior.

We exchanged a last look, each trying to smile for the other's sake, but we both just ended up grinning nervously and confirming that we were both equally jittery. However, having worked through the latest crisis, we were also possessed of a steely determination to stand our ground, which was probably best manifested by the fact that we had finally exchanged the L-word in the morning.

With a last simultaneous sigh, we composed ourselves and walked into Jeffries' office when ordered to do so. As the higher ranked officer, Erika reported our obvious arrival and we both snapped to attention, waiting for Jeffries to come down on us like a ton of bricks.

But he didn't. In fact, when I finally nerved myself to look at him, I didn't even think that he was particularly pissed off. It was more of a 'what have you gotten yourself into' kind of look. He just sat there and gave us the eye, letting us stew in the uncertainty of what was to come next.

"At ease," he finally ordered, and invited us to take a seat.

Once we had done so, he grabbed a pen from the polished surface of his desk and pointed it at me. "It's a good thing you won that tournament, Tucker. That'll keep many people from acting on their hatred for you."

I shook my head in surprise. "With all due respect, sir, but _hatred_? I didn't commit a crime."

"No you didn't," Jeffries replied and gave us a smile that I couldn't quite work out. It didn't look menacing, but it wasn't any too friendly either; in a way, it was almost sad. "What you _did_ do is charm the one woman whom half of headquarters was keen to win over. Before I met my fiancée that group included me, so I'm not in a position to comment on the fact that the two of you quite obviously have it bad for each other."

I heard a scandalized gasp from Erika next to me, and she blushed a very pronounced shade of pink. Seeing her this uncomfortable, I abandoned my restraint. I took her hand between mine and put our joined hands in my lap. The fact that she let it happen without shooting me so much as a warning glance was testament to how much she needed my reassuring touch.

"I'm sorry, Erika, it wasn't my goal to make you uncomfortable," the Commodore apologized. "But I want you to understand why you're sitting here instead of returning your Starfleet issue kit to the Material Office. For the record, Lieutenant, did Admiral Black make unmistakable advances on you in 2139 and reacted badly to your rejection?"

I could feel Erika's hand tightening between my palms.

"'Advances' is one way to put it," she said in a voice I'd never heard from her before. It was low and dark, and without being loud it was dripping with disgust. "He stopped just shy of zipping his fly open to 'present the weapon'. And suddenly, three weeks later I found myself in command of that very special basic training platoon in forth company."

"I don't think any of us will ever forget that bunch of ne'er-do-wells," Jeffries agreed. "Well, Black didn't succeed in his attempt to have both of you discharged."

This was going nothing like the way I'd envisioned. In fact, in some weird roundabout way we were turning from accused to accuser. This story about Black did not make me a happy man.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir," I requested and Jeffries nodded, looking at me expectantly. And so was Erika.

"When I came in here, I was expectin' to be chewed out and spat by the wayside for the horrible crime of having a relationship with a woman, and I've got no illusions: if we aren't discharged, something's still headed our way that neither of us will particularly like. But, is there a reason beyond my understandin' why a Starfleet Admiral can still have his job after what sounds mightily like sexual harassment?"

"I never reported it," Erika admitted, her eyes cast down.

I squeezed her hand to let her know that I wasn't too upset. Well, I _was_ upset, but mostly about the fact that an Admiral gets away with proverbial murder, while a lowly cadet's called to do the carpet dance for falling in love with someone. It was ridiculous. And unjust; I hate injustice more than practically anything.

Erika's motives for not reporting it weren't hard to guess. The last few days had shown, more than obviously, that she was prone to attempt to ride the easy route out of her problems, even if that meant inconveniencing herself. We definitely had some work to do on that one, particularly if she ever wanted to make Captain.

"You've just heard the reason," Jeffries said, some regret clearly detectable in his voice. "We'd all have preferred that Erika had reported it, but she chose not to, and now after her little stunt at the tournament, she's no longer in a position to do so in a credible way."

I could see Erika blush again, and I squeezed her hand again. She looked up and gave me a little sad half-smile. I brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, which got us a little attention-seeking throat-clearing from Commodore Jeffries.

"Anyway," our superior continued, and made no mention of the cozy little scene he'd witnessed; instead he held up the PADD containing our report. "You two have a few things going in your favor. First, your relationship technically began in 2138. Tucker wasn't in Starfleet yet. Furthermore, Erika is an instructor, not a teacher. She has no influence on grades or authority to give them. Else one sniff of this relationship would have broken her neck immediately." He looked at her sternly.

"If you want my advice, you better ace that fitness check. There are some people who think this whole 'feelings rekindled during training' spiel is an excuse. A noticeable improvement over last year would go a long way to silence those suspicions."

"Oh, she _will _ace it, sir," I replied with conviction, which got me a little proud smile from Erika. "In fact, I've had a good look at the regulations. They say she's allowed to be accompanied by a technical coach. Now strictly speakin', the technical details have been handled by my sister Lizzie, but she can give me the necessary instructions. The important bit is the run, and that was my part of the coaching."

By the way he sat back in astonishment, I could see that Jeffries had been among those who'd thought our training had been just a front, and I couldn't suppress a little triumphant smile. Some people around here would soon order a generous helping of humble pie.

"Tucker, are you trying to tell me that you want me to authorize you to travel to Bilbao for two days to accompany Erika to her fitness check?"

"Oh, that's where it's gonna be?" I asked a little cockily. "Yep, then that's what I'm askin' you for. Just for the record: the best time Erika's done recently over five miles was almost _nine_ minutes faster than her previous best. She improved in the long jump by almost a meter and a half, and the difference in the high jump will be measured in astronomical units."

"No pressure then," Erika quipped, slightly sarcastically.

"I take it there has been no PED skullduggery involved?" Jeffries asked. "If she's really improving as much as you say, that's gonna raise some eyebrows. And she'll definitely have to pee into a cup."

"No performance enhancin' drugs, sir," I assured him. "But your track and field instructors might wanna entertain the prospect of a job change. We've worked on stamina and springiness, but sixty or more percent of the improvement's entirely down to weedin' out technical mistakes that your instructors failed to spot."

"What do you expect?" Jeffries replied with a snort. "Barely anyone chooses track and field anymore. They all go for swimming, cycling, rowing. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been training with the janitor."

"Well, after Bilbao I might have the necessary leverage to offer the services of a twenty-year-old kid and his baby sister." I risked a grin. "Our scholarships are good, but we can always use the extra money."

"Isn't your schedule not packed enough yet?" Jeffries snorted.

I grew a bit more serious, as so far we'd avoided the white elephant in the room. "Let's cut to the chase, sir," I said, more calmly than I felt at that point. "Starfleet's usual reaction to relationships is separating people. Since we only have one academy, it's a bit of a no-brainer which of us is going to be transferred. And if I remember correctly, Bilbao is where Captain Forest and the Third Company are stationed. A company that's about to receive the first load of new recruits in January."

"Well gathered, Mr. Tucker," Jeffries answered, and turned to Erika. He'd known her for a long time and had only addressed her by her first name so far, but now he was going all official. "Lieutenant Hernandez, effective next Monday you are transferred to the Third Company under command of Captain Maxwell Forest."

Then he fixed us both with a stern look.

"Apart from that there will no disciplinary consequences and both of you are free to pursue your personal relationship, as long as it stays where it belongs – in off-duty hours. You're both dismissed."

When we walked out, I couldn't really make head or tail of this. On one hand Jeffries seemed to be on our side (if in a roundabout sort of way), but on the other he seemed just as doubtful of us as many others. For some reason Reed's clipped voice popped up in my head.

_It's all just so bloody confusing._

-=/\=-

I walked off the shuttle and shivered, wondering what would be the bigger punishment for Erika: being given command over Fourth Platoon, or the temperatures. Back home in Florida, December was the first of only three months in the year during which Harrison's creek was deserted, except for a few hardcore types, who'd probably still go swim if they had to hack a hole through the ice. Except that the lake had never frozen over in my lifetime.

Out here the sun was shining, but temperatures were a measly nine degrees centigrade. Erika would have a hard time staying warm during her fitness check. And Jeffries had not exaggerated: nobody chose track and field anymore. They'd had to prepare the whole kit and caboodle for one single lieutenant to take her test.

I'd spent the last two weeks since her transfer mainly pining for her. The distance meant we could only see each other on the weekends. She'd arrive very late on Friday evening, we'd sleep in on Saturday, then do something together during the day and (if we weren't too knackered), we'd actually find some time for some love-making in the evening. This was followed (inevitably) by sleeping in again on Sunday, and then in the afternoon she'd have to leave again.

I couldn't help the feeling that Starfleet was banking on the fact that many weekend relationships would eventually break up. But Erika and I had gone through enough crisis situations, we were undeterred, and one shouldn't underestimate just how much more intense the sex can be if you've been missing each other a whole week. Most guys my age might have gotten a hell of a lot more nookie than me, but mine was top-notch with a woman who knew what she was doing and, more importantly, had the patience to teach me a trick or two. That her usual coping method when missing me was to send me a sexy picture, well you can't underestimate the appeal of _that_ either. Though it has to be admitted, it didn't make it easier to forget what I was missing.

I was rattled out of my thoughts when I was attacked by a dark-haired missile as soon as I stepped out of the departure area of Bilbao space port. By the way Erika greedily explored my mouth, her tongue almost frantically searching for contact with the depths of any flesh that belonged to me, I could tell she wasn't in the mood to save energy for the next day's test.

Not that I was any better. She must have been missing me a lot again, considering how explicit the image was she'd sent me on Wednesday. I'd been a walking pile of horniness ever since I saw that picture of her stretching luxuriously on her bed in absolutely nothing but a suspender belt, white thigh-highs – oh, and the blindfold from that wild morning in the stadium three weeks ago. How much more of a hint does a guy need?

But our frantic, almost desperate kissing did nothing to help with the pent-up desire for each other; in fact, if anything, we were running into acute danger of starting something that is not customarily conducted in a public setting.

"Darlin', we should get outta here before I lose the last little bit of my self-control," I pressed out among heavy breaths, prying myself away from her, which required a lot of effort. She grabbed my hand and we hurried out of the airport.

-=/\=-

I yawned, soaking up the morning light. The bright sunshine suggested a much warmer day than it actually was. The old training ground had definitely seen better days. There was no roof, and the few decrepit bleachers would hold no more than perhaps a thousand spectators – if there were any. An official, a protocol assistant, Erika and I were the only people in attendance.

After I'd seen the guard rails, whose dirty white paint was richly discolored with many a rusty spot, I inspected the long-jumping pit and the high-jump arrangement, checking them for all the details Lizzie had written down for me.

For starters there had been too little sand in the pit, requiring them to organize a delivery of fresh sand from a local construction company. The bar on the high jumping arrangement was not as flexible as required and it was missing the blocks at the end, meaning it would fall at the slightest touch, while a regulation bar would perhaps flex a bit, but stay where it was. We couldn't do much about the lack of flexibility, but producing two blocks was not much of a problem - after all, there was an engineer present. I had the thing half-way into order before the truck with the sand even showed up.

To avoid any further delays, things started off with the high-jump. I nearly bowled over laughing when the official and his lap-dog looked at each other dumbfounded when Erika demanded the bar at 1 meter sixty-five – a silver height. After all, they had the results from last year, and she'd barely managed the minimum bronze height in the third and last attempt.

But even more hilarious were their faces when she lined up for the in-run. My attention was momentarily drawn away as I could see those strong muscles in her thighs flex when she started her run, at a very sharp angle to the bar and straight ahead as if she wanted to just run past it. The two of them were still staring at each other, and only just snapped their eyes forward in time to watch her as she jumped up and rolled over the bar – forwards. I could see that she had still a few centimeters to spare, but the official started arguing.

"What was that, Lieutenant? That was not the proper technique," the presiding official protested.

"Says who?" I stepped in and walked from my place on the tartan track over to his position. "Mind explainin' to me how you can be a 'Track and Field' official and not know the Straddle?"

He wasn't going to back down; his chin jutted at me obstinately. "I know it, Mr. Tucker, but the technique has been obsolete for one-hundred and eighty years."

I fished the PADD from my pocket and waved it at him. "These are the IAAF rules. There is _nothing_ in it sayin' the Straddle is forbidden. And even if the last world record usin' that technique is from 1975, the records say the technique was still used by some individuals until far into the twenty-first century."

"Well, if you _insist_ on using an obsolete technique," he huffed.

"Well, she went twelve centimeters higher than last year usin' it," I replied dryly. "So I'm guessin' we insist."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Erika shaking her head in amusement. She was loving this. I went over to her to explain my plan.

"Darlin', we're changin' the plan. It's difficult for you to keep warm, and we need to get this over with. Let's go straight to one meter seventy-one."

"You sure?"

"You can do it," I assured her, and turned to the official. "One seventy-one!"

He didn't even argue. At a guess, he thought I was over-reaching myself, and thought she'd fail and teach me a much-needed lesson.

The first attempt failed. She had the height, but her left thigh brushed the bar and it fell. As Erika rose from the padding she looked across at me, a little dispirited and even a little reproachful, but I nodded and waved her to come over.

"You were a little late on the left leg," I told her.

"I was too slow spreading my legs? That's not what you said last night," she replied with a mischievous grin, but for once I was not in the mood for jokes. I wanted this to work out. "Darlin', we can joke all we want when this is over, but I'm takin' this very seriously. I'm not going to give those numbnuts back in 'Frisco any chance to mock us."

She turned serious and placed a little peck on the tip of my nose. I could see the young adjutant beside the official hide a smile behind the palm of her hand.

Erika skipped on the balls of her feet, ran up to the bar, and this time she cleared it with at least two or three centimeters to spare. She was deliriously happy. This was the first time in her life she'd cleared the gold threshold, a massive twenty-two centimeters more than last year. Well, not being afraid anymore to jump in the first place had certainly helped. Had she been able to use the proper modern technique, who knows she might have been capable of a one-eighty, but she'd done enough to improve.

"You had a few more centimeters to spare," I challenged her. "You should try one seventy-five."

"Are you crazy?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"What worse can happen than toppling it three times? And it'll actually keep you warm for the long jump," I said, pointing over at the truck delivering the fresh sand.

She just nodded while I demanded the new height from the official.

I was asking a lot, and I knew it. It was right on the ragged edge of what she could do. She had cleared a one seventy-seven once back in 'Frisco, but that was on a regulation compliant installation.

She bungled the first two attempts and I could see that she didn't look too hopeful for the final one. And that may have been the trick. She brushed the bar ever so slightly with her thigh in the third amd last attempt, but it stayed up.

Those four centimeters could be worth a lot as we went on to her weakest discipline.

In the long-jump she did worse than expected. She completely bungled the first attempt. In the second she forgot to take her arms to the front, or more precisely did so too late and landed rather uncomfortably. It was just about enough to score a silver. Those extra four centimeters from the high jump came in very handy now. It would boil down to the run, and frankly I couldn't tell if she or I were the more nervous. So far I'd only stood in for Lizzie's work, and at least in the high jump it had worked out. But now would be the moment of truth for _my_ work.

Erika was pissed off. She'd gone eleven centimeters further in the long jump than last year, but she'd realistically hoped for more, as she'd bettered her final score by a full ten centimeters more back in training. Now she'd have to do a high thirty-nine on the run if she really wanted to end this one with a gold badge.

It didn't look good. Anger is never the right mindset to start an endurance event. She'd cleared the first five laps at over 13 kph, more than slightly faster than we'd done in training. I was screaming at her every time she came round to slow it to the pace we'd practiced, but Erika wasn't hearing me. Her face was a pained grimace of agony, her mouth wide open gasping for air, and even in this cold weather her body was glistening with sweat. Slobber ran down her chin as she struggled for more oxygen.

I had to catch her forcefully when the forty minutes were over, she would have just soldiered on. But it didn't take long for the exhaustion to set in. She had absolutely overcooked it, and I knew what was coming. With a horrible retching sound she bent over the guardrail, and the contents of her stomach splattered into the undergrowth.

I gently picked her up and carried her over to the grass of the infield. I held up and massaged her cramping legs, while in the distance I could see a medic sprinting towards us, obviously summoned by the official. She'd taken every bit of energy out of her slim body, but when the official showed me the result sheet, I knew it had been worth it.

She'd done a 36:54 – almost ten full minutes faster than last year.

She had the gold. Since she couldn't do it herself, I pumped my fist in triumph.


End file.
